


The Most Powerful Weapon

by wearethewitches



Series: And felt joy on waking. [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Aurors, Basilisks, Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Dimension Travel, Divination, Female Harry Potter, Gen, History of Magic, POV Harry Potter, School, Wizarding Culture (Harry Potter), Wizarding World (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 20:30:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18080393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearethewitches/pseuds/wearethewitches
Summary: Dumbledore, when the man reaches the podium, shakes his hand. Harry watches him as he sits down beside the unfamiliar witch, who watches him with trepidation.“…as I was saying, until further notice, the Quidditch Cup as you know it is cancelled,” Dumbledore says, voice sedate. “May I introduce Professors Moody and Potter, who will be working in conjunction with each other to cover both Defence Against the Dark Arts and the newly-revived History of Magic positions.”-There's a mystery witch in Hogwarts with the name 'Potter' and it isn't long before Harry - the Boy Who Lived, youngest seeker in a century who apparently won't be playing quidditch this year - becomes curious.Who in the world is E.L. Potter?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> continuation of #time warp from my 'shrunk, through the magic door' compilation of supposedly discontinued Word file one-shots.

**CHAPTER 1**

The new DADA teacher is a witch who wears a striped Gryffindor jumper at the staff table. Her hair is tied up in a messy bun on top of her head, raven curls glossy and round spectacles reflecting candlelight and there’s clearly a wand-holster attached to her left arm. Students watch as she talks to the Headmaster and Madam Hooch enthusiastically, grinning toothily.

At the Gryffindor table, emptying out his shoe of water, Harry leans closer to his friends. “She looks decent enough, I suppose.”

“That’s an alumni jumper,” Ron replies, enthusiasm only slightly dampened by how soaked he is. “She must have been on the team! What position do you think she played?”

“Honestly, is quidditch _all_ you care about?” Hermione rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “You would think she’d be encouraged not to show favouritism. She isn’t even wearing robes.”

“I think they’re on her seat,” Harry points out, seeing the tell-tale sign of fabric over the back of her chair. The funny thing is though, her robes don’t look much like robes.

“That’s a jacket,” Hermione corrects, the fourth-year girl busy pulling her bushy, brown hair into a ponytail – most likely, so she can use a drying charm without gaining a complete afro for her troubles.

“Huh,” Harry ponders that, peering at her across the hall. Her skin is the same colour as his own – brown, like caramel, remarkable similar in shade – and they even have the same type of glasses. Harry swears, as he looks harder, that she even has the same colour of eyes. Like Hermione said, it’s a jacket hanging off her chair, rather than robes. If Harry had seen her in the muggle world – in a different jumper, of course – he wouldn’t even have thought she was a witch.

Madam Hooch, standing between her chair and the Headmaster’s, nods suddenly, standing up straight. Harry sees her yellow eyes flash around the room, pausing every so often. She even looks at _him_ , head dipping in greeting. Harry does the same, looking along the staff table as he does. At the far end on a pile of cushions sits Professor Flitwick, their half-goblin charms teacher, who looks to be rather absorbed with a book. Next along the table are the teachers Harry knows to be Hermione’s arithmancy and ancient runes professors, Professor Vector and Professor Babbling. Beside them, the professors Sprout and Sinistra, their herbology and astronomy teachers, are stuck in conversation.

To their right sits Harry’s most hated teacher, Severus Snape. He looks balefully over the hall, wand flashing with blue briefly to stop an altercation between Slytherins and Ravenclaws sitting near where the first-years would be sat, after the Sorting. Then, on Professor Snape’s other side is presumably Professor McGonagall’s seat, then Albus Dumbledore’s.

Their as-yet unnamed Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, the witch in the Gryffindor jumper, claps to herself beside him, clearly quite happy with the conclusion of her conversation – Madam Hooch moving away two seats to sit between Madam Pomfrey and the muggle studies teacher, Professor Burbage, strangely leaving the seat beside the new DADA Professor empty.

Above them, in the enchanted ceiling, the sky crackles with lightning, thunder rolling in the background.

“I could eat a bloody hippogriff,” Ron moans, craning his neck to see the closed entrance hall. “Can they hurry up?”

The words are no sooner out of his mouth when Professor McGonagall strides in, followed by the tiny, sopping first-years who seem to have swam across the lake rather than sailed. Events quickly carry on from there, the Sorting Hat singing a different song from last year and a plethora of first-years being Sorted.

Harry nearly breaks his neck when the _P_ section comes around, head snapping up in shock.

“Potter, Edward,” Professor McGonagall calls out the name, seeming perturbed. Harry – like many others – moves so he can see the small boy who steps up onto the platform. The resemblance is even more disturbing than the name.

Dark hair, dark skin…Edward Potter smiles though, as he nervously sits down, looking up at the Hat just in time to get a face full. Snorts echo through the Hall, along with muffled laughter before Professor McGonagall corrects the positioning. Edward’s eyes close and for a few moments, there’s silence.

Behind him, at the staff table, the new DADA Professor leans forwards.

“… _HUFFLEPUFF!_ ”

A round of applause comes, though it’s subdued. At the staff table, though, the witch in the Gryffindor jumper lets out a shrill whistle, exchanging a set of thumbs up with the boy. Their grins are identical as he takes his place at Hufflepuff table, the new professor’s eyes glimmering with unabashed pride.

Harry finds himself out of sorts as the Sorting continues. He keeps looking at the professor and…her son? The resemblance between them in uncanny and Harry almost wishes there was a mirror, so he could look at himself and properly analyse his face. Does he look like that? Do they look like him? Why is that boy named _Potter_ and are they his relatives?

Suddenly, Harry’s heart is pounding. _Do I have another aunt?_ He stares at the professor, for the first time in a few years thinking back to the Mirror of Erised, of men and women with knobbly knees and messy black hair. What happened to his _father’s_ family? Does he have aunts and uncles out there? Grandparents? Cousins?

“I don’t understand,” Hermione hisses as the Sorting finishes, her words hidden under a round of applause. “The Potter’s all died, right?”

“Supposedly,” Ron mumbles, just as confused as Harry. The three exchange glances, before looking up to where Professor Dumbledore now stands, glass clinking.

“I have only two words to say to you all, now,” he says, deep voice echoing through the Great Hall, “Tuck in.”

Moments later the feast appears, but Harry is far from hungry. His stomach rumbles, though and soon he digs in, briefly forgetting why he was so morose. But it barely takes more than seeing a flash of Hufflepuff yellow to remember his troubles.

“Do you think they could be related to me?” Harry asks his friends tentatively.

“Well, statistically, it’s unlikely – think of all the people named John Smith in the world,” Hermione says. “But I’ve found that in the Wizarding World, well…”

“Probably,” Ron gives his own answer through a mouthful of potatoes.

Harry barely listens to the ensuing conversations. Nearly-Headless Nick, the Gryffindor ghost, talks about how Peeves made a swimming pool of the kitchens from soup, Hermione becoming appalled at how many house-elves live and work at Hogwarts.

“Slave labour,” she says, “That’s what made this dinner. Slave labour.”

Once dinner and pudding have been swept away, crumbs and all, Dumbledore once more stands and calls everyone to attention.

“So, now that we are all fed and waters, I must once more ask for your attention, while I give out a few notices,” the Headmaster pronounces with an easy smile. “First of all, Mr Filch, our resident caretaker, has asked me to tell you that the list of objects forbidden inside the castle this year has been extended to include screaming yo-yos, fanged frisbees and ever-bashing boomerangs. The fill list comprises some four hundred and thirty-seven items, I believe and can be viewed in Mr Filch’s office, if anybody would like to check it.”

The corners of Dumbledore’s mouth twitch. He continues, “and as ever, I wold like to remind you all that the forest of on the grounds is out-of-bound to students, as is the village of Hogsmeade to all below third year.”

“It is also my duty to inform you that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup will not be organised the same way this year – in fact, all House teams this year are to be newly arranged entirely.”

“What?” Harry gasps, not understanding. Around the room, similar murmurs of confusion reach his years. Harry can see Fred and George looking rather open-mouthed further back down the table.

Dumbledore keeps speaking. “These changes will be fully discussed at a later date, but until other matters are arranged, I am afraid that the Quidditch Cup is cancelled.”

There is a minor roar in defiance – only for the noise to be fully silenced by the banging of the entrance hall doors.

Shadow looming behind him, the figure holds a cane and Harry is briefly overtaken with a deep sense of foreboding. A flash of lightning illuminates them briefly, foot clunking loudly in the silent hall as the man – and they _are_ a man – walks up to the staff table. Another flash of lightning puts their features into sharp relief and Hermione gasps at the scarred visage it reveals, though Harry is more focused on the clearly magical, spinning eye that moves up, down and around – spinning all the way backwards to show the white.

Dumbledore, when the man reaches the podium, shakes his hand. Harry watches him as he sits down beside the unfamiliar witch, who watches him with trepidation.

“…as I was saying, until further notice, the Quidditch Cup as you know it is cancelled,” Dumbledore says, voice sedate. “May I introduce Professors Moody and Potter, who will be working in conjunction with each other to cover both Defence Against the Dark Arts and the newly-revived History of Magic positions.”

Hushed whispers immediately spready through the Hall, breaking the silence that Moody had brought. Harry is too shocked to ask Ron whether this _Moody_ is the man that his father went to help this very morning.

“Professor Binns, our resident ghost professor, will be available still,” Dumbledore continues after a long moment, eyes twinkling, “though I’m sure you will all take advantage of his new retirement to improve your grades in Professor Potter’s class.”

 _Potter. There it is again,_ Harry thinks, the name like a gong in his head.

“So _she’s_ the History of Magic professor?” someone calls out, voice extra-loud so they can be heard.

Dumbledore inclines his head, “As many of you know, Hogwarts has always had…trouble, keeping it’s Defence Professors. This new system will perhaps shed some light on how to avoid such a thing, in the following terms.”

More whispers. More hushed murmurs. Harry is still stuck on the words ‘ _Professor Potter’._

“And now, for my main announcement,” Dumbledore says, straightening where he stands. “This year, we are honoured to host a very exciting event over the coming months, an event that has not been held for over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you that this year, Hogwarts will be hosting…”

Dumbledore’s smile widens.

“The Triwizard Tournament.”

* * *

Harry expects to be in either Defence or History when he first runs into Professor Potter. Unexpectedly however, it is in neither class, for when he climbs up the silver ladder into Professor Trelawney’s perfumed divination tower, Professor Potter is there, having tea with the batty woman.

“Uh,” Harry startles, nearly falling backwards through the trap-door. Only Ron’s quick grab of his school uniform stops him from dropping and bringing Lavender down with him.

“Oh! Hello,” Professor Potter smiles when she sees them. “Sorry – the professor and I were just discussing todays lesson. She agreed to let me lead a discussion about prophecy.”

“Right,” Harry mutters, before walking over to a table, sitting down on a chair with a back, leaving Ron and Neville with the low, long pouffe. Harry watches the other Potter as the class fills up, his peers taking their seats and chatting quietly as they wait for the bell to ring.

Like the evening before, Potter is in her Gryffindor jumper, but today her sleeves are rolled up, revealing the two leather wand holsters strapped to the inside of her arms. _Two wands?_ Harry wonders if she can duel with both, or if one is just a back-up, though for a minute he becomes overly distracted by how tight her black trousers are.

When the bell rings, Professor Trelawney rises, arms reaching outwards.

“Good day to you all!” she says, in an explicably good mood as she motions to Professor Potter. “My inner eye has never been clearer and it is my greatest pleasure to invite a guest to talk of prophecy and how the alignment of stars and planetary luminosity can affect the portents!”

“Thank-you, Professor,” Potter touches her elbow, drawing her to her seat. “Hello, class. I’m going to be lecturing you today, seeing as my first-years today are being paired up with a third year Defence class to learn about the magic around Hogwarts, defensive and otherwise. I know you’ve been studying divination a year now, so you should all know what a prophecy is – but just to be sure, can you raise your hand if you _do_ know?”

Harry slowly raises his hand, along with the rest of the class. He watches her eyes skip over them all, humming. Then, her hand dips into her pocket and she withdraws a crystal ball, wand suddenly twirling in her hand.

“This here is a prophecy, straight from the Department of Mysteries. When a prophecy is made, it is automatically recorded and stored on the shelves. It’s old magic – ancient magic, even. The Department of Mysteries in the Ministry of Magic had to transplant the Great Druidic Archive within its depths to both keep the magic running and keep the prophecies safe.” She pauses, flashing a grin, “You’ll learn more about that in History with me, so keep listening if you want a leg-up on your assignments.”

A subtle shift rings through the class. Harry and Ron spare each other a grin, both thinking, _Hermione’s going to hate this._ It’s not often that elective lessons overlap with normal classes. The two friends know she’ll be irritated that she missed it.

“Prophecies gathered in the Department of Mysteries are protected by many enchantments – many naturally occurring. Do any of you know what those are?”

Parvati puts her hand up, even as Harry blinks over the term _naturally occurring_. Professor Potter nods to her. “Aren’t they types of wards? Ones that- uh, ones that show up when the magic is _just_ right? Like- like, the place and the time?”

“Somewhat. It’s tricky to explain,” Professor Potter says, tilting her head back and forth. “Naturally-occurring magic is almost impossible to predict, outside of known magical phenomena. For instance, the annual Yule Lights at Stonehenge or the Incan _Labirinto de Floresta_ in Brazil.”

Parvati blurts out, “What about the frost snakes from the Himalayas?”

Professor Potter shakes her head in disagreement. “An argument could be made over whether they are a naturally-occurring magical beast or a product of their environment, but Professor Hagrid is the one to ask, not me.”

It makes him feel bad, but Harry has to wonder if Hagrid actually knows what ‘naturally occurring magical phenomena’ is, let alone if Hagrid can answer Parvati’s question.

“Around prophecies like these, wards form to protect them. Prophecies are never made by accident or on purpose,” Potter lectures, walking closer to the class, showing them the crystal ball. It’s small and smoke inside wafts around, swirling and fading in and out – but even as she walks past them, Harry thinks he sees something or maybe even _someone_ , a whisper brushing through the edge of his hearing. “The stars must be in the right place. The planets must be on the right axis and in one moment, where the heavens are in alignment with Earth, magic _sparks_. Creation. The powers of an Oracle _click_ , like a puzzle-piece falling into place.”

Professor Potter pauses, the moment heavy. “For one moment, all is right and all is wrong. Two moments in time connect, past and future. Those with the prerequisite powers can divine that future from images or whispers – and the more powerful they are, the more consequences. Oracles are so powerful even non-magical folk know of them and have trusted them in days gone by. You are lucky to have Professor Trelawney as your teacher.”

“Lucky?” Harry mutters to himself, of the opinion that Professor Trelawney has bats for brains.

“Yes, _lucky_ , Mr Potter,” Professor Potter says sharply. Harry flushes, not realising he’d been so loud. Her wand flicks, tapping the prophecy in her hand. Even as they watch, a ghostly image rises from its depths and to Harry’s shock, it’s Professor Trelawney – and her words are dreadfully familiar.

“ _THE DARK LORD LIES ALONE AND FRIENDLESS, ABANDONED BY HIS FOLLOWERS. HIS SERVANT HAS BEEN CHAINED THESE TWELVE YEARS. TONIGHT, THE SERVANT WILL BREAK FREE AND SET OUT TO REJOIN HIS MASTER. THE DARK LORD WILL RISE AGAIN WITH HIS SERVANTS AID, GREATER AND MORE TERRIBLE THAN HE EVER WAS. TONIGHT, BEFORE MIDNIGHT, THE SERVANT WILL SET OUT TO REJOIN HIS MASTER…_ ”

Harry leaps to his feet. “How did it know that?” he demands, heart beating wildly.

“As I said,” Professor Potter says calmly. “Prophecies are automatically recorded in the Department of Mysteries. I picked this one up myself, to show the class. I saw that you were the witness to your professor’s moment as an Oracle.”

“I-” Harry stutters, sitting back down abruptly. He avoids looking at his classmates, who look at him with wide eyes.

“There are thousands and thousands of prophecies in the Department of Mysteries. Many will never come true, for no-one ever heard them and the naturally-occurring wards around each copy in the Ministry don’t allow those they are not _of_ to touch them.” Potter tucks her wand into her holster, tossing the prophecy orb between her hands. “Who here knows about the concept of self-fulfilling prophecies?”

Potter doesn’t wait for hands, continuing on even as she deposits the prophecy into Professor Trelawney’s grasp, who obviously is quite proud of her achievement. “A self-fulfilling prophecy is a prophecy that has been heard and then acted upon. One example of such is the story of Oedipus – the original motherfucker.”

Harry’s eyes bug, Ron’s mouth dropping open. Professor Potter flashes them a grin before speaking.

“Oedipus is a character from Greek mythos. His father, Laius, was told that his son would kill him one day and so Laius gave Oedipus up for adoption. When Oedipus grew up, he was told the same prophecy. However, Oedipus was unaware of his true origins and so left his foster-parents in hope he would never see them dead. He journeyed across the land and got into a fight with a stranger, whom he killed. He then married his widow, who also happened to be his mother. Oedipus killed his father, just as was prophesised.”

“Laius wanted to avoid his son ever killing him,” Professor Potter lectures, “but by trying to avoid fate, he made it happen. It is in the nature of human beings to act with knowledge given to them, whether to their interest or detriment. When it comes to prophecies, avoiding something could very well make it true or vice versa. Once a prophecy is known, either it comes to pass or it does not.”

Dean raises his hand. “Professor?”

“Yes, Mr Thomas?” Potter queries.

“How do you know what prophecies are true or not?”

“Every prophecy is true,” the witch replies in a stately manner. “As soon as they’re heard, events are set in motion; and before you ask about the unfulfilled prophecies that ‘no-one heard’, Oracles don’t remember their prophecies. It’s why the copies are so important. The druids and shamans of the ancient magical world created the Great Archive in an attempt to gather that knowledge, preserving it where human memory would fail.”

“Why, though?” Harry questions, meeting Professor Potter’s eyes. As she smiles, he recognises the same emerald green as his own glinting back at him beneath wire spectacles.

“Sometimes, events need to be recognised,” Potter states, “for they mean more than they first appear. The prophecy the class just heard, for example – you know what some of it means, yes? Would you like to tell your peers?”

“…not really,” Harry says, not knowing why himself. _It was about Pettigrew,_ he figures, _but I got distracted when I tried to talk about it. Professor Trelawney didn’t remember._

“Professor, if you would allow me?” Potter says to Trelawney, picking up a pile of parchment and dispersing them with her wand at a nod from the older witch. Each piece of parchment flits across the class, landing in front of students. Harry reads it, mind reeling. It seems so simple, written down with the date in the top left-hand corner, but at the same time…it’s a terrifying prospect.

 _Voldemort is going to come back with Pettigrew’s help_ , he thinks.

“Interpretation of prophecies, as exemplified by Laius over Oedipus, is difficult and oft-times prone to mistakes,” Professor Potter states. “For the next ten minutes, in groups, I’d like you all to try interpreting this prophecy. Other than with those at your tables, no discussion is allowed. I’d like you to try divining whom the prophecy concerns, what timeframe the prophecy discusses and why the prophecy was spoken in the first place.”

“But miss, isn’t that unfair?” one of the Ravenclaws asks, “You said Harry would _know._ ”

“This isn’t being marked,” she says in return, “After you finish discussing it, you’ll compare notes with your classmates. This is for fun as much as it is a lesson. Your interpretation can be outlandish as you want, so long as you think it’s realistic…now, get into groups.”

Harry and Ron find themselves in a rather large group, considering. Parvati and Lavender squeeze up between Ron and Neville, who barely avoids being pushed off the pouffe as Seamus and Dean bring across their chairs.

“So,” Seamus looks at Harry, “what’s the prophecy about?”

“Uh…” Harry swallows, chancing it. “Well, it was last year…when Sirius Black was about.”

Lavender squeaks, “It’s about _Black?_ ” Parvati rushes to write down his name on her parchment, but Harry quickly shakes his head.

“No! Sirius- he’s innocent, actually. Completely. He was framed.”

“Really?” Dean asks, wide-eyed. “Who framed him?”

“Scabbers,” Ron mutters, before elaborating as Lavender gives him a weird look. “He was an animagus, like McGonagall. He was hiding out in our house the entire time.”

Lavender puts a hand to her mouth, looking sick. “A wizard was pretending to be your _pet?_ But he was in the _dorms_ – the _tower!_ What kind of person is he? Could he have gotten past the wards on the girls stairs?”

Harry gives her a strange look, before realising what she’s getting at and feeling sick himself. “Let’s hope not,” he mutters. “His name was Peter Pettigrew. He and Sirius were friends at school – they were Gryffindors with Professor Lupin and my dad. Best friends.”

“Yeah and Pettigrew was the real Secret Keeper who gave up Harry’s parents to You-Know-Who,” Ron whispers to them, eyeing the surrounding tables, “He was a spy. A Death Eater.”

“And you shared a _dorm_ with him,” Lavender says, distraught. Harry isn’t prepared for how she flings herself at Ron, who startles at her sudden weight on his lap, arms wrapping around his neck.

Seamus edges closer to Dean. “It is kind of freaky,” he admits. “Why didn’t we get questioned by the Aurors?”

“Snape,” Harry mutters bitterly, fist clenching. In his hand, the parchment crinkles and rips. “He convinced Minister Fudge that we were all confounded by Sirius. _Ha_ , like _he_ knew what was happening! Snape _hated_ my father and his friends. It’s why he told everyone about Professor Lupin being a werewolf.”

“What about the Aurors?” Parvati questions, obviously horrified. “Surely they wouldn’t leave it at that!”

Harry looks away. He doesn’t expect Parvati to start shouting in another language, clearly _extremely angry._

“Miss Patil!” Professor Potter cuts her tirade off, before she replies back in the same language. Harry blinks in confusion, wondering what they’re saying. Parvati is ranting, obviously upset and angry about _something._ Whatever she says turns their teacher’s face dark.

“I’ll deal with it,” she says, looking to Harry and Ron. “Come to my office this evening, if you would. I’m in the same corridor as Professor Binns. It’s hard to miss. Bring Hermione.”

Harry’s stomach flip-flops, but he nods. “Professor, can- can I be excused?”

“Of course, Harry,” she says and her voice is quiet. Harry gathers his bag, listening to Ron ask the same thing and getting permission to leave – along with the rest of their table.

Lavender keeps a hold of Ron’s arm the entire way to Gryffindor tower. Dean and Seamus are quiet. Neville is pale and he keeps sneaking looks at them both. Parvati looks…Parvati looks furious, actually. Harry falls into step with her.

“What were you saying, back there?” he asks her.

“I was complaining.” Her voice is short and vindicated. Harry looks down when he finds her hand winding into his, clenching tight. “You go through so many things every year. I told my parents over the holidays and they didn’t believe me. It’s not fair on you, when we _know_ what kind of danger you get into every year. You don’t even have parents to care.”

Harry looks away from their joined hands. “No, I don’t.”

“Do you think Professor Potter will take you in?” Parvati asks.

“I don’t even know her,” Harry says. He can’t help but look at their hands again. It’s a strange feeling, holding _hands._ Parvati’s hand is warm and not clammy. Her fingers are smooth and her nails are sparkly, painted Gryffindor red.

“You’re definitely related. You should ask her tonight,” Parvati says, meeting his eyes briefly, “I can come with you, if you want. For support.”

 _For support,_ Harry mouths to himself. “I mean…if you want,” he says, unsure.

Parvati eyes him critically. “I will,” she replies, squeezing lightly before dragging him up the stairs at a faster speed.

Hermione is far from impressed later at dinner, hearing they’re to go see a teacher _already_ , but as soon as Lavender starts babbling, saying _grown men, Aurors_ and _twelve years to do whatever he liked_ , her judgement is less inclined towards Harry but towards Pettigrew. What surprises Harry, though, is how his dormmates are insistent on going as well.

“He was in our dorm, _ours,_ ” Seamus says, lips pursed. “My mam’s going to have a fit if he memory-charmed any of us.”

“Memory-charmed?” Harry repeats, horrified.

“See, _this_ is why you should have told the Aurors rather than have let Professor Snape speak for you,” Parvati points out, before wincing at her own words. “That came out wrong.”

“It’s fine,” Hermione says briskly, “let’s just go.”

Harry _really_ feels sick to his stomach, now. “What about Percy?” he questions, making the group pause. “Scabbers was Percy’s rat first.”

Ron’s face is tinged green. “Perce- he and all his dormmates are graduated, now.”

“Let’s just go down,” Lavender insists, latching onto the closest guy in the group – Dean, this time. The slight teen wavers slightly, looking uncomfortable at the contact, but lets it go on. Harry thinks that Lavender looks more distressed than Hermione does in exam season, which is _really_ something.

“Yeah,” he agrees and the group make their way out of the Great Hall towards the History of Magic classroom. _She said it was in the same corridor,_ Harry remembers, _and hard to miss._

It really is, though, seeing as there looks to be half a dozen red-cloaked witches and wizards hanging around outside.

“Aurors,” Parvati breathes a sigh of relief. “She actually got Aurors in.”

“That’s a first,” Seamus mutters as they draw closer and closer, attracting their attention, “considering how many times they might have been needed over the last couple of years.”

Harry can’t help but agree, as they push past them all to enter the classroom. 


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2**

The tables are set up in squares. It’s the first thing Harry notices, comparing it to muggle classrooms – except muggle classrooms probably don’t have candles in the chandeliers and moving tapestries on the walls. There’s a wizard’s duel on one tapestry and on another, a coven of witches ringed around a well.

Professor Potter is leaning against her desk near the wall, out of the way and half-hidden in shadow. Her jumper is gone, replaced by a set of fitted green robes with silver thread along the hem and her wild, raven hair that is so much like Harry’s is pulled up into a tight ponytail. Harry then has to briefly consider if she’s really a Slytherin, wearing all that green.

 _How would that explain the quidditch jumper, though?_ He questions his own thoughts, gaze drawn to where Snape, of all people, is talking stiffly to an Auror – an Auror who is clearly different from the others, if the golden bands on their shoulders are anything to go by.

“-child endangerment, Master Snape.”

“As I have repeatedly said, I have _not_ endangered my students,” Snape practically growls.

“I’d be quiet, if I were you,” the Auror, a witch, says sharply. She has long, ash-blonde hair drawn back in a tight bun at the base of her neck, but a few strands are loose around her pierced ears that glimmer gently. “You’ve said enough. If I hear any more about you, I’ll be having a word with the Board. Do you understand?”

Snape grits his teeth audibly, “ _Understood._ Am I _dismissed?_ ”

“You’ll wait outside with my colleagues and you’ll stay with them until I give you leave to go,” she replies, turning away from him and looking over the Gryffindors that had just arrived. “Hello, good evening to you all.”

“Hello,” Harry says, echoed by his friends.

“This is Captain Darcy Deirdre,” Professor Potter introduces them as Snape stalks out of the room, glaring at Harry as he goes past. “She’ll be conducting interviews with each of you individually. Harry, Ron, Hermione – you’ll be first.”

“Professor Potter is here as an impartial candidate,” Captain Deirdre says, voice far softer than when she had been talking to Professor Snape. As she approaches them, Harry realises with a start that her neck is covered not by what he thought was a turtleneck jumper or scarf, but moving grey tattoos, like shadows on her skin. A dragon is curled up in the hollow of her throat with gently blooming flowers in off-white and black ravens line the sides of her throat, flying in a rush downwards out of sight from behind her ear to her collar.

Captain Deirdre smiles a little at their attention, tilting her chin down in attempt to gain their real attention. “Until your parents or guardians are contacted, she’ll also be acting _in_ _loco parentis_ , rather than the Headmaster.”

“Why isn’t Professor Dumbledore here?” Hermione asks quickly.

Deirdre’s expression darkens briefly. “He’s proven himself insufficient in this case. Before the interviews, I’ll be taking your names and details, then I’ll speak to Mr Weasley.”

Harry can’t help but look to Professor Potter, who had contacted the Aurors and arranged for all of this. She meets his eyes and nods in encouragement as the students crowd Deirdre, who takes their information in turns.

“My guardians are muggles,” Harry feels the need to mention, when his turn comes around, “They won’t want to be involved in all this.”

“That’s fine, Mr Potter. Do you know who is acting as your magical guardian?” Deirdre questions calmly.

Harry’s brow furrows. “Magical what?”

“Your magical guardian, Harry,” Hermione jumps in to explain, “They’re the witch or wizard responsible for you in magical places where your muggle guardians can’t go. Muggleborns are usually taken under the supervision of the teacher who first contacts them about Hogwarts.”

“Uh,” Harry blinks, looking to Captain Deirdre. “I suppose, Hagrid, then?”

“Rubeus Hagrid?” Deirdre raises an eyebrow, somewhat amused. “Alright. He’ll be summoned alongside you if your testimony is needed in court.”

Harry startles at her words, but before he can ask her any questions, Deirdre moves on to take Dean’s details. When Dean hesitantly mentions his wizarding father – his _biological father,_ he says, because his mother remarried – is dead and he grew up like a muggleborn, unknowing of his true heritage, Deirdre is briefly stumped.

“Magical guardianship would usually pass to your closest living relative,” Deirdre informs him, tapping her chin with the end of her quill. “I’ll get my people on it. The Archives should have his history. What’s his name and do you happen to know when he died?”

Eventually, though, they’re all shuffled out of the room, with the exception of a shaking Ron.

“What do you think she’s going to ask him?” Hermione murmurs to Harry as they press up against the wall together. The Aurors are more spread out, now, stationed further down the corridor at each end. Snape glowers at the group of them from a few feet away, standing by the opposite wall in silence.

“Well, probably about Wormtail,” Harry says, reluctant, “When he came to the Burrow, how long Percy had him…about what happened in the Shrieking Shack.”

Hermione squeezes his arm in support, grimacing. “At least this might give Sirius the chance to be exonerated.”

Harry smiles back weakly. “Yeah.” _But at what cost?_

Hermione is next and when Ron comes back out, he refuses to speak, rubbing his head furiously. Harry’s heartbeat increases even further, nerves getting to him. When Hermione returns, she’s tight-lipped.

“We’re not allowed to talk about it,” Hermione replies when Harry asks what went on. “Just go inside, Harry.”

Tucking his hands in his pockets, Harry does just that, entering and walking forwards to where Captain Deirdre sits at one of the square tables. Professor Potter sits opposite her and there, between them, back to the door, is the chair Harry is obviously meant to sit in. Every step towards it feels like another mile closer to getting Sirius free.

 _They’re listening,_ Harry thinks desperately. _The adults are actually listening to me. I’ve got to make this count. I’ve got to tell them **everything**._

“Hi,” he breathes, sitting down. Captain Deirdre offers a short smile.

“Mr Potter, before we begin, it’s important you know that this interview is confidential. Your testimony will be recorded as evidence, but all the information you give us will be filed away in the Auror Corps HQ and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement offices until safe to be released to the public archives. This could be a slow process, so I’m advising you now _not_ to say anything more of the issues we’re about to discuss to anyone else. This includes your family, the faculty here at Hogwarts and your friends.”

“Alright,” Harry replies, brow furrowing. He doesn’t understand why it has to be kept secret – it’s not like keeping it to themselves would _help_ the issue.

Captain Deirdre narrows her eyes at him, seemingly knowing exactly what he’s thinking. “I know that Sirius Black is seen to be a criminal of high regard throughout the country, Mr Potter and I’m aware you’re here to have him exonerated – but there are other matters mixed into the issue. Mr Pettigrew, for example, taking up residence in the Weasley homestead. Would you like the entirety of Britain to know that?”

Harry thinks of how horrified everyone would be; of how people would look at the Weasley’s with pity, if they weren’t like Malfoy and outright making fun of them for the entire thing. Swallowing, Harry shakes his head, quiet.

“…good. We have an understanding.” Captain Deirdre leans back in her chair. “As you’re a minor, you legally cannot sign non-disclosure agreements or take magical oaths of the same calibre, so this warning I just gave you will have to do, for now. Please be aware that if circumstances change, as a major witness to events you may be taken into protective custody and as the case proceeds, will most likely be called to testify in court, regardless of your status as a minor.”

“Okay,” Harry replies, feeling out of his depths. There’s a sinking feeling in his stomach. Captain Deirdre has laid it out perfectly for him to understand, but at the same time, he’s wondering what he has really gotten himself into.

“We’ll start with Pettigrew. When was the first time you remember being in his presence, in human form?”

“Uh,” Harry stumbles, “the Shrieking Shack, the night Sirius was recaptured. The full moon.”

Captain Deirdre has a quill in hand, pressed to parchment. “June sixth and seventh, yes?”

“I think so.”

“Alright. Now, could you describe that full day to me, please?” she asks politely, watching him carefully.

Harry tentatively nods, before describing his day from the moment he and his friends went down to see Hagrid. He describes how Scabbers escaped Ron’s hold and was chased to the Whomping Willow Shack by Crookshanks; how a great, big black dog dragged Ron by his leg through the tunnel and how Crookshanks froze the tree for them to pass through. Twice, Captain Deirdre asks him to slow down as he gets into a rhythm, describing the ensuing encounter with hate and vitriol based against Wormtail – an encounter that, he tells her, never would have happened if Sirius was put on trial rather than just chucked in Azkaban without thought.

However, Harry naturally slows down once his tale comes to the moment in the Hospital Wing after Fudge and Snape had left. He pauses, wondering what Hermione said in her interview. Did she mention using the time-turner? Did she tell Captain Deirdre how they saved Sirius and Buckbeak?

Professor Potter comes to his rescue. “These questions are about Mr Pettigrew, Harry. If you have nothing more to say about _him_ , then the majority of this interview is over.”

“…alright,” Harry nods in thanks, her matching green eyes meeting his. Oddly, Harry has the feeling that she _knows_ – that she’s aware Harry and Hermione were in two places at once that day.

“Indeed, if you have nothing more to say about the night in question, I’ll ask some follow-up questions, if you don’t mind.” Captain Deirdre states crisply. “Firstly, when was the first time you believe you were in the presence of Peter Pettigrew in his animagus form, disregarding any childhood visitations that may have occurred when you were a young child?”

“The train,” Harry replies, “September first, on the way to Hogwarts back in my first year.”

“September first, nineteen ninety-one?”

“Yeah,” Harry nods, watching her write down the date and then becoming fascinated as her clear scrawl twists and turns, becoming blurry and indistinguishable. “Is that an Auror thing? To keep the words from being read?”

“The parchment is charmed,” Captain Deirdre replies in a neutral tone. “My next few questions may be distressing, Mr Potter, so please brace yourself.”

“Okay,” the boy frowns, wary. Captain Deirdre slouches in her chair, leaning her head forwards as they meet eyes.

“It has been claimed that Ronald Weasley’s pet rat, previously thought to be a magical familiar, is a wizard in animagus form. Do you believe this to be true?”

“Yes.”

“Do you also confirm that – regardless of whether ‘Scabbers’ was a wizard in animagus form or not – he spent close to three years minimum in the bed and quarters of an underage wizard?”

“Yes,” Harry swallows. “More, if you include Percy.”

“Percival Weasley?” Deirdre confirms. Harry nods. There’s a few moments where Deirdre writes on the enchanted parchment, the words becoming unreadable, before she continues. “Have you any blank spaces in your memory from during your time in Hogwarts that give you cause to believe you may have been memory-charmed?”

“Captain,” Professor Potter cuts in, “like with Miss Granger, I don’t believe Mr Potter would be able to recognise the effects of a memory charm.”

“Noted,” Deirdre says, scribbling briefly. “Mr Potter, a memory charm is usually unable to be detected by the charmed person, though many have been able to notice a certain distinction between forgotten memories and forcefully-discarded memories. Legillimens’ can retrieve their taken and obliviated memories by delving into their subconscious and this would be the method used by St Mungo’s healers, if you and your magical guardian consented to a search and possible-retrieval.”

“You think I’ve been memory-charmed?” Harry clarifies, heart beating fast.

Deirdre corrects him, “I don’t think it’s a certainty, Mr Potter, I only believe there is a _possibility._ I am asking whether you have certain… _misty_ spots in your memory. If you believe you have been memory-charmed or are uncertain, I can arrange an appointment for you to see a Master Legillimens with the appropriate credentials.”

“Did Hermione and Ron say yes?” Harry questions.

“That’s confidential, Mr Potter,” Deirdre replies, “and please remember of my advisement earlier not to speak about the case with anyone, involved or not.”

“O-okay,” Harry stutters, trying to remember _not_ remembering. But he has no idea how to do it and it scares him how easily it could be to be- what was it she said? Obliviated? “I don’t know,” he says weakly, “but I’d like to know if I have, please.”

“Alright, Mr Potter, I’ll put your name on the list,” Captain Deirdre says gently. “Would you like a glass of water?”

Harry nods, watching Professor conjure a glass, a quick _aguamenti_ filling it close to the brim. He shakily lifts the glass to his lips, parched all of a sudden. But the water does settle his stomach a little, calming him down as the moments pass in silence.

“We’re nearing the end now, Mr Potter,” Captain Deirdre says to him, giving him a short, but not-quite reassuring smile. “These ones, I’m afraid, are more personal and less specific to the investigation at hand. How is your relationship with Professor Snape, Mr Potter?”

Startled and slightly thrown, Harry nearly spills the glass of water. “Snape?”

“Yes, Mr Potter. I have concerns about his misuse of authority within this school, as well as Professor Dumbledore’s. But I’d like to talk about Professor Snape with you, now.”

“Right,” Harry mutters. “Right, yeah, well…Snape’s a mean bastard. He bullies students and picks on me because he hates my father. He favours the Slytherin’s and is really brutal on the Gryffindor’s – we have classes together. He’ll award _Crabbe_ points for creating _cement_ and take points the next moment from literally _anyone_ else who isn’t Slytherin if their potion is the wrong colour.”

“But is that because what potion they’re creating is going to endanger your classmates or because of this perceived bias?” Captain Deirdre points out. “Professor Snape has his Potions Mastery, after all.”

Harry shakes his head roughly. “No, he’s like that outside of class, too. He’ll make up rules and I’m not kidding when I say he’s _never_ taken points from Slytherin – not where anyone can see, at least,” Harry allows an addendum, because he thinks Slytherin _has_ probably had points taken by Snape at some point. Not often, but not _completely_ never.

“And what kind of comments has he made to you, specifically?” Deirdre asks, noting something on a separate piece of parchment. “You said he hates your father.”

“A lot, yeah. He said once that I’m a strutting peacock, just like my father,” Harry says, recalling what Dumbledore said to him in first year. “My dad saved his life, but they hated each other in school, apparently. Loathed each other.”

“That would certainly build resentment,” Deirdre says lightly, before moving the topic onwards. “Anything else?”

“He blames me when Neville blows up his cauldron and doesn’t let Hermione partner up with him to prevent it,” Harry says bluntly, remembering over two dozen separate incidents – often with the same potion they were both forced to remake in a detention- pardon him, _remedial session._ “She’s the best in class and tutors him. It would make sense.”

Deirdre hums, noting more down. “Alright. Thank-you for that; and your relationship with Professor Dumbledore?”

Harry shrugs. “He’s the headmaster. I’ve talked to him a couple of times at the end of the year, before. He came and visited me in the hospital wing in first year and after Sirius was arrested again. I went to his office, after the Chamber incident in second.”

There’s a significant pause, as Harry waits for Deirdre to reply.

“Chamber incident,” Captain Deirdre repeats quietly. “This would be when the famed ‘Chamber of Secrets’ was reopened, two years ago? You were involved?”

Harry blinks. “Yeah? I mean- yes, I was. There was a basilisk in the pipes – I was hearing it all year, because I’m a Parsletongue.”

“Parslemouth,” Professor Potter corrects him gently, with a touch of a smile, eyes glinting. “Parsletongue is the language. You’re an Englishman who speaks English and a Parslemouth who speaks Parsletongue _._ ”

“Professor!” Captain Deirdre startles, eyes wide and skin pale.

“Apologies,” Professor Potter grins with shiny teeth and dark eyes and Harry is quite confused as to why she’s in trouble. But Professor Potter glances at him with kinder eyes, speaking again – this time with a definitive hiss, purposeful and made to be heard unlike beforehand. “ _Parsletongue is an inherited trait, kid. We’re of the Pandyan Kingdom and the Sixth of the Five Great Assemblies. Don’t be afraid to ask me about it._ ”

Harry’s mouth drops open.

“Professor, please don’t speak a foreign language in an official interview unless you’re willing to transcribe your interaction. This will be your first and last warning,” Deirdre then snaps off pretty quickly, clearly somewhat scared. On her throat, the dragon tattoo is awake and snapping.

“Again, I apologise. Harry – why don’t you continue? You were talking about a…basilisk?” Professor Potter prompts him, eyeing him carefully.

Harry, shaken – _we_ , she said, while speaking _Parsletongue_ – looks back to Captain Deirdre. “Yeah- yeah, I was- I was hearing the basilisk in the walls. It freaked me out and then the petrifications started happening and we figured out it was reflections. Basilisks kill with their gaze. It’s how Moaning Myrtle died, back in the forties.”

“Really? She testified to that?” Deirdre shoots up, “The official report blamed Rubeus Hagrid and his pet acromantula, despite the evidence to the contrary uncovered over the years since his propagation of their species.”

“It was really the basilisk,” Harry confirms. “There was this enchanted diary of Lord Voldemort’s that Lucius Malfoy gave to Ginny Weasley during the summer, when he fought with Mr Weasley in _Flourish and Blotts_. He possessed Ginny and opened the Chamber using Parsletongue, releasing the basilisk and ordering it to attack muggleborns.”

Captain Deirdre frowns deeply, thick eyebrows drawing together. “I’ve not heard of any of this.” She glances at Professor Potter, muttering, “It sounds like political sabotage.”

“Malfoy versus Weasley?” the professor snorts, “Oh, most definitely. A separate inquiry should be made, but if Lord Wielisław hadn’t addressed it in the Summer House Moot of ninety-three…”

“This is an official investigation and more cases are being opened than closed,” Captain Deirdre grumbles, shaking her head and rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Alright. Okay. Mr Potter, please spare me no details when you describe this ‘Chamber Incident’.”

“Alright,” Harry says, before starting over from the beginning – starting all the way back at the beginning, when he and his friends discovered Mrs Norris beneath the message on the wall.

He tells Captain Deirdre everything, going over everything from Dobby to the spiders. He tells her about Hagrid’s arrest, Malfoy and Lockhart’s incompetency – knowing she needs to know about Lockhart now, so the ‘fraud’ part makes sense later. From her expression, Harry doesn’t believe Deirdre is impressed _or_ a fan. His heart clenches in old pain when describes becoming a pariah for being a Parslemouth and being badmouthed by the rest of the school, up until the moment Hermione was petrified.

“They couldn’t believe I’d petrify my own friend. She was really clever – she figured out it was a basilisk and that it was using the plumbing to get around,” Harry praises his best friend, smiling up until the moment he describes finding out Ginny had been taken.

The rest of his story is wild, in retrospect and frankly, if he hadn’t been there himself, Harry would have called it too good to be true. So, he doesn’t mind when Deirdre leans back in disbelief, shaking her head – because she’s still writing on that separate sheet of parchment and _listening_ to him, noting it all down on her official, enchanted Auror parchment.

“This needs to be documented separately and verified, I think,” Captain Deirdre states, pursing her lips as she stares at Harry. “Could you go down to the Chamber again?”

“Again?” Harry frowns. “Why?”

“Could you?”

“…I mean, yeah,” Harry says, vaguely, “but why?”

“Because the basilisk carcass is your trophy by Ancient Hunting Law, firstly and leaving it to degrade down there is a waste,” Captain Deirdre says, before stating, “and because I’ve half a mind to call you delusional without proof. I heard nothing about this and I’ve been a Captain for five years, heading my own platoon for four of those. Even the accusations against Peter Pettigrew would be enough to call an emergency Moot…Merlin.”

Harry is silent as Deirdre considers what he’s told her. She taps her quill against the parchment, making a large, inky blot, before nodding to herself.

“Alright. Here’s what’s going to happen. Mr Potter, our interview is going to be otherwise postponed after just a _few_ more questions and then, while I’m talking to the rest of your classmates, I would appreciate if you lead half of my team outside to the Chamber of Secrets. They’ll attempt to preserve your trophy and if possible, move the carcass into Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, barring it from entry.”

Harry suddenly lets out a deep breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” Captain Deirdre states, voice firm. “Then, after the interviews are finished, I’ll personally confiscate You-Know-Who’s enchanted diary from Headmaster Dumbledore. This is our plan, now. Is there anything else you’d like to add before I ask my final questions?”

Harry thinks rapidly. “Uh- uh, is Mr Malfoy going to get in trouble for this?”

“Most definitely, if the house-elf testifies under veritaserum,” Captain Deirdre replies.

“And what about Pettigrew? How are we going to prove he’s an animagus?”

“That’s more difficult,” the Auror admits, “however, by the time we get you involved in the trial as a major witness, there should be more evidence to stack up against him. Sirius Black’s testimony, for example, provided we can get him safely into custody and keep him wrapped up tightly enough not even the Minister can intervene.”

“I’m in contact with him,” Harry then blurts out, Deirdre’s eyes going wide. “If I write to him and tell him what’s going on-”

“Don’t,” Deirdre raises her hand sharply. “Don’t discuss the case with him, even obliquely. It may anger you to hear this, Mr Potter, but Sirius Black is still wanted for his escape from Azkaban. He was there not only for the supposed murder of Peter Pettigrew, but also the twelve muggles that were killed in the blast. Regardless of the outcome _or_ the truth, his involvement makes him either the culprit or an accessory to these twelve deaths, as the likely instigator of the fight. You _must not inform him._ ”

“But why?” Harry clenches his fists, “He deserves to know he could be free!”

“And he will, when the _Daily Prophet_ puts out an article asking for him to turn himself in, so he might get the trial he deserves,” Captain Deirdre states calmly. “When that article is to be published, the Department will advise you on how to act, considering you _are_ in contact with Mr Black. Until then, I advise you to refrain from writing to him.”

“He’s the only one who cares about me,” Harry says, plaintive. “Please, we just want to be a family.”

“You _have_ a family, Mr Potter – muggle relatives, right?” Deirdre says, clearly trying to cheer him up. But Harry only scowls.

“They hate magic,” he says, shaking his head. “As soon as Sirius is free, we’re going to live together and Sirius- Sirius _cares_ , Captain Deirdre. He _loves_ me. He never stopped thinking about me and my parents in Azkaban and he wants what’s best for me.”

“What if what is best for you is staying with your muggle relatives?” Captain Deirdre questions, voice quiet. “Mr Potter, this might not end happily. Mr Black may even have to go back to Azkaban to serve time for other crimes committed. Breaking and entering, for example – Hogwarts is supposed to be a safe and secure establishment where young witches and wizards can learn to control their magic in a stable environment. His erratic behaviour could bar him from taking custody of a minor.”

“ _No_ ,” Harry exclaims in dismay.

Captain Deirdre breathes deeply. “We’ll see how it goes. Have there been any other major incidents you believe should be reported to the Auror Department, Mr Potter?”

“I-” Harry swallows, still upset at the thought of _not_ getting to live with Sirius. “In my first year, Voldemort possessed Professor Quirrell and tried to steal the Philosopher’s Stone.”

“…Morgana’s tits, I’m not paid enough for this.”


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER 3**

Myrtle has flooded the second-floor bathroom again. Water streams across the corridor floor as they approach, feet splashing. Nervous, Harry leads the three Aurors to the door, knocking before opening it, ducking his head in.

“Myrtle?” he calls out, hearing her sobbing cut out abruptly as she floats up out of a toilet stall. Harry pastes on a smile. “Myrtle, is it alright if we come inside?”

“Who’s ‘we’? You and your friends?” Myrtle questions, sniffling as Harry opens the door properly, leading the witch and two wizards inside. “Oh! You’re not students!”

“No, Miss Warren,” the taller of the two wizards – an Auror by the name of Ulysses Wilkes – addresses her respectfully. “We’re here to enter the Chamber of Secrets and to ask if you’d like to testify officially in court, about your murder at the hand of Slytherin’s basilisk.”

Myrtle lets out a high-pitched squeal, diving down to float around him excitedly. “Really? I get to tell a _whole court?_ And no-one will laugh?”

“No-one should laugh at death itself,” Wilkes states, solemn in the face of the young ghost girl. “Would you guard the bathroom for us, while we go down into the depths of the Chamber? None should enter.”

“Especially with the new spells on the door,” his other wizard-partner mutters. He’s a shorter brunette man with a receding hairline whose name Harry thinks is Jenkins, but his voice is quiet and Harry isn’t so sure.

“Ooh, of course! Is this a secret?” Myrtle asks, eyes wide behind her glasses, pig-tails lopsided as she grins.

“Very much so,” Wilkes replies, before looking to Harry. “The Chamber?”

“Just here,” Harry says, stepping forwards to locate the snake on the tap. Finding it, he concentrates, listening carefully to his own voice as he says, “ _Open._ ”

There’s a loud rumbling – and as usual, Harry has no idea whether he’s spoken in English or Parsletongue, though he thinks he got it this time, seeing as the Chamber is opening right in front of them. When the sinks have moved and the pipe is visible, Harry struggles to contain his grin, glancing back at the Aurors.

“I’ll meet you at the bottom,” he says, giving the three of them a little wave before jumping down the slide – laughing at their short yells as he zooms down and down, twirling upside down at one point when the bend is particularly sharp. Eventually, though, he lands at the bottom in the pile of animal bones with a hard thump, robes covered in slime and other nasty things.

Bones crackling underfoot, Harry moves out of the way, taking out his wand to cast _lumos_ , not having realised how small the tunnels actually were in real life. _I was shorter, back then,_ he thinks. _I think I remember Lockhart having to stoop to fit._

The three Aurors soon come swirling down the slide, the third of the trio – the witch, called Flora MacDonald – retching slightly at the mess on her robes.

“Oh, this is disgusting,” she makes a face and with a couple of flicks of her wand, all four of them are only a little less than pristine, Harry’s robes feeling like they’ve been freshly washed and starched, to boot. “Lead on,” she instructs, a strange, bluish bubble appearing around her head.

Harry looks about, “This way,” he says. They trudge through the sewer, which smells worse than Harry remembers. When they come to the caverns proper, exiting the tunnels, the blockage becomes visible.

“What happened here?” Wilkes questions, squinting at the child-sized gap near the top.

“Lockhart tried to obliviate me and Ron with a broken wand,” Harry explains shortly, “It backfired and separated us. Can you guys fit through there, do you think?”

Jenkins smiles slightly. “This is why we’re here to help, Mr Potter. I’ll stabilise the roof of the cave. MacDonald?”

“Debris,” she claims, changing the stance of her feet, raising her other arm to the same level as her wand.

Wilkes sighs. “I’m with Jenkins, then. It’s not like the weight of Hogwarts is now on our shoulders, is it?”

Slightly alarmed at Wilkes’ sarcasm – _they’re going to hold the entire weight of Hogwarts?_ – Harry watches them chuckle to themselves before beginning to cast. Before his eyes, the rocks begin to levitate, the cavern repairing itself bit by bit and the blockade disappear back into place; and then, the smell becomes nauseating in its intensity.

“MacDonald?” Wilkes says, voice strained.

“I’m on it, give me a second,” MacDonald says, stepping back with a curse, shouting, “Do _not_ look down!”

Harry expects them to look down and see the basilisk skin, but they don’t, instead closing their eyes, trusting MacDonald implicitly. MacDonald swiftly begins summoning nearby rocks, transfiguring them into pillars meant to hold up the unstable roof.

“I think we’re good,” she eventually says, tentative. “Let’s try it.”

Carefully, the wizards stop casting, a silver blush Harry hadn’t even realised had appeared dissipating. They stand still for a moment, watching the supports.

“…good job,” Wilkes says, before looking down and letting out a girly shriek at the sight of the snake skin. “Merlin’s saggy balls!”

“Jesus Christ,” Jenkins mutters, eyes wide.

“It’s bigger in real life,” Harry says, just to be a little shit, walking past it to where he can see the circular door to the Chamber. “It’s just up here.”

Focusing, Harry says _open_ once more, feeling much more positive about Parsletongue and facing the Chamber itself this time around, knowing that the basilisk is dead and Ginny is safe. However, once the door opens, letting through a gust of air, Harry’s eyes burn from the smell and the almost acidic taste to the air.

“Hoo boy, that is nasty,” MacDonald says, waving her wand. Around Harry’s head, a bubble of air appears, identical to her own.

In the distance, at the foot of the giant statue, the basilisk’s corpse is obviously rotting. It’s jaw is a complete mess, as if acid had melted through it and faintly, Harry can see the circle of ink from where he destroyed Tom’s diary.

“How big is that?” Wilkes questions, in awe.

MacDonald whistles, “Has to be at least sixty foot. Sword through the jaw, you said?”

“Gryffindor’s sword,” Harry confirms, as they approach. “What are you going to do, now?”

“It’s too big to transport in one piece and not in the condition for it, in any case. We’ll vanish the rotten flesh and organs, but only after getting those teeth and scales,” Jenkins replies, voice clearer than before. “Then, the skin and bones. Enchanting a conjured crate for some extra space will be risky, considering the magical signature of even this _dead_ beast, but it can be done – temporarily.”

Jenkins glances at Harry, who was blinking at his sudden speech. “You see, Mr Potter, this is my specialty, right here. Auror’s are all-rounders, but we all have our interests. Beasts – fighting them and taking them apart afterwards – are mine; MacDonald, get your gloves on.”

“I’m with you,” Wilkes says to Harry, still slightly distracted by the ginormous corpse. “Want to have a little exploring time? Slytherin’s said to have a library, down here.”

“I think Voldemort might have nicked any good stuff from down here already,” Harry admits, glancing at the open hole in the statue where the basilisk once lived. He wonders where it leads. “We can start in there, though, if you really want to.”

“Let’s go, then,” Wilkes says, a little more enthusiastic than before – certainly, more enthusiastic than MacDonald, who hems and haws at the grossness as she and Jenkin get right into the thick of it, manually tugging off scales from the loose skin.

After accidentally walking through the pool and then forgetting there’s a pipe in the middle and nearly drowning, Harry and Wilkes get to the entrance, scrambling upwards into the gloom. Their wands lit with twin _lumos_ charms, the two investigate the large stone room inside. It’s circular, with wavy grooves in a cyclone shape in the centre, clearly meant for the basilisk to sleep in.

“There,” Wilkes says, excited as he points across to a set of double doors.

“Good spot,” Harry replies, surprised. Approaching the doors, Harry sees the stone snakes tied around the handle and attempts _open_ in Parsletongue again – only for the snakes to hiss back at him, demanding a password. Balking, Harry looks to Wilkes. “They need a password.”

“Are they enchanted to ask for the password or are they more sentient?” Wilkes questions, before elaborating at Harry’s confused question, “Can they answer any of your other questions?”

“Uh, I don’t know. Give me a minute,” Harry looks back to the stone snakes. “ _Do you only want a password or can you speak?_ ”

“ _We only speak to our Master and you are not they,_ ” they say, two hissing voices as one.

Harry immediately feels lighter. “ _Your Master is dead._ ”

“ _But you are a Speaker and the Master’s Kin are the only Speakers,_ ” they say, “ _and if you were Master’s Kin, you would know the password._ ”

“ _My kin died before they could tell me,_ ” Harry tries to persuade them, fibbing a little. “ _Only my aunt lives and she doesn’t know the password either, I don’t think. She’s never been here before._ ”

Aunt. Cousin. His relative for sure – whoever Professor Potter is, he’s sure she won’t mind him calling her his aunt, not when she claimed they _both_ came from the same family, speaking Parsletongue to him as if it’s a gift from the _Potter’s_ and not Voldemort.

The stone snakes hiss to each other quietly, too quietly for him to catch. Then: “ _New, young Speaker must visit the Library of Amina and read Lina’s Book. Lina, the Honoured Master of Snakes, was our Master, granddaughter of the Old Master of Snakes, Salazar, son of the Elder Master of Snakes, Rashida. False Kin have tried to become the new Master before, but Lina’s Book did not like them. Read Lina’s Book – do not bring the prey with you._ ”

“What did you say to them?” Wilkes questions as the doors open, but Harry is only left puzzled.

“They said not the bring the prey with me…I think they mean you,” Harry says, glancing at the Auror, hoping he won’t be defended. “They said something about a book – I think it’s magic. I have to read it to become ‘the Master’.”

Wilkes frowns slightly. “The Master of what?”

“…snakes,” Harry admits quietly, eyeing the open doors. The room inside is pitch black, not even the light of their _lumos_ charms breaking it. “Can I go in?”

Wilkes eyes him carefully. “Considering you killed that basilisk out there, I have a feeling you do what you like. If I say no, will you come back when we’re gone and see it anyway?”

Harry considers it and eventually nods – already, he’s itching to go inside and see what the snakes meant. The Auror at his side hums, before conjuring a long rope, handing the end over.

“If you get in trouble, tug on the end and I’ll pull you out. Tug twice if it’s okay for me to come inside and you want me there with you. Tug three times if you feel _me_ tug on it,” Wilkes instructs. “I’ll know you’re okay if you reply. If I tug twice in a row, you need to come back.”

“Thanks,” Harry offers, surprised. He ties the rope around his waist, eyeing the doors nervously. “One tug for trouble, two for you, three for ‘I’m alive in here’. If you tug twice, I come back.”

“Not so hard, is it?” Wilkes says mildly. “If you don’t reply to me, I’ll drag you out, alright? No matter what’s happening.”

“Alright,” Harry agrees. Then he takes a running leap into the darkness before his nerves can get the better of him, not expecting to immediately bang into a wobbling stone podium. Almost dropping his wand, Harry doesn’t realise the room is lit until he’s stopped the podium from wobbling, the book on it opening up for him to see what looks like a list of names.

“…woah,” Harry’s eyebrows rise high on his forehead.

The room is larger than even the Chamber, filled to the brim with books. The ceiling is bright yellow, letting off a light that hurts to look at, like the sun. In the centre of the library is a large, round table, surrounding a large, dusty map carved from stone that from a distance, resembles the world somewhat.

But the book in front of him recaptures his attention quickly, letting off a crackle of energy. Hissing in pain, Harry looks down, not expecting to see the short list of names – names he’d heard from the stone snakes only minutes before.

_Rashida Reza of Lybeia_

_Salazar Slythrynn_

_Amina Alexandros_

_Lina Slythrynn of the Pandyan Empire_

“Pandyan,” he reads. _That’s what Professor Potter said we belonged to._ His hand trails along the aged paper, catching on something sharp. Harry startles at the amount of blood that spills, though, expression twisting into one of shock as he watches his name write itself out in red below Lina Slythrynn’s.

_Harry James Potter_

Then, the book starts to shake, glowing and flickering. Harry steps back, but his hand is stuck to the page. He thinks he shouts for Wilkes – but his brain scrambles and there are suddenly _secrets, spells, magic of Parslemouths and history of the Ancient World rushing through his veins like blood._

There’s a tug on the rope around his waist and in a daze, too overwhelmed to deal with Wilkes’ panic, Harry tugs back.

Amina’s Library suddenly feels familiar, like he’s known it for years. He could tell you what each book contained and when it was placed on the shelves. Slowly, his hand unsticks from Lina’s Book, her greatest magical creation – the Slythrynn Grimoire of Parsletongue Magic combined with her last defence for the Library that her aunt, Amina Alexandros, saved from fire and destruction.

 _I have to keep this knowledge safe,_ Harry thinks faintly, the implications of what he now knows settling in his head. Even in the muggle world, they knew about the Library of Alexandria. Harry just hadn’t expected to ever become the Custodian of the last remnants of its magical counterpart.

“Merlin. Circe and Morgana.” Harry lets out a startled laugh, knowing full well, now, that those people all used to be real – the Slytherin’s of old met them and knew them as friends and teachers, even if they weren’t gods. Harry wonders at how history has skewed itself. Hogwarts has been standing for more than just a _thousand_ years and Merlin, while never a student or a Slytherin himself, certainly tied himself quite firmly to the Slytherin bloodline through his quarter-cambion daughter.

“ _Jesus H. Christ,_ ” Harry gasps, dropping to the ground and clutching his head. It doesn’t seem right to use Merlin’s name as a swear anymore, as his direct descendant and Harry is _acutely_ aware that saying either Circe or Morgana’s names in vain would have resulted in his painful torture and eventual castration.

The stone snakes on the doors hiss at him. “ _Harry, new Honoured Master of Snakes; kin of Lina, the Old Master of Snakes, granddaughter of Salazar, the Elder Master of Snakes, son of Rashida, the Ancient Master of Snakes. Praise the Honoured Master of Snakes and their Speaker Kin…_ ”

“… _thank-you, Gracious Guardians of Amina’s Library_ ,” Harry replies, knowing they have protected this place since Lina locked it behind her. They are dead familiars long turned to stone, with blood-red Yule garnets for hearts and teeth warded as complexly as Lina’s Book. “ _Gracious Guardians?_ ”

“ _Yes, Honoured Master?_ ”

Harry breathes in slowly. “ _Who was the False Kin?_ ”

The stone snakes hiss in anger and they say, “ _He said his name was Riddle._ ”

On the way back out of the Chamber, Harry is quiet, left with a feeling of not-quite anger and the weight of responsibility on his shoulders. Amina’s Library is important, to be kept safe – his _duty_ now is to keep it safe. But Wilkes, who was ecstatic to hear of the library beyond the dark barrier actually _existing_ is badgering him now, wanting Harry to tell him what kind of selection remains.

It’s odd, because Harry has never really had this before. He might have acted the hero before, saving Ginny, Sirius and Buckbeak and defending the Philosopher’s Stone, but there is no immediate danger here. Harry has to weigh his choices and decide when and how to speak. Wilkes says things that alarm him – like “ _We’ll have to bring a team of curse-breakers down to dismantle everything_ ” and “ _Imagine what kind of Ancient Magic could be rediscovered from a Parslemouth’s Grimoire!_ ”.

There’s no _respect_ for his new position, though it’s stupid of Harry to expect Wilkes to understand. Lina’s last diary before she left for India sits on the nearest shelf. On the last few pages, she wrote of her plans to let the Library sit in wait for her descendants, who would judge the world for worthiness and return the knowledge once said world was ready.

Harry doesn’t know how to judge the world. He imagines Hermione becoming the Custodian, worrying over the dilemma. Hermione would research the state of the magical world and its libraries, stacking _lack_ against _want_ , then come to her conclusion.

“I’m closing the Chamber. No-one is going to get in there, not right now.” Harry makes his decision, telling Wilkes in a firm voice. The Auror stops in the middle of his sentence, staring at Harry blankly for several moments, exuberance dying. Then, his expression shifts and it’s familiar – an adult looking down on a child.

“Mr Potter, this is bigger than you know. That library needs to be catalogued and compared against our records-”

“It is catalogued,” Harry interrupts him roughly. “Everything in Amina’s Library, _I know._ ”

“Impossible,” Wilkes frowns, but his indecision is clear. At the base of the pipe leading back up into the bathroom, the two wizards wait in silence for MacDonald to return with Jenkins’ broom for Harry – the other Aurors having needed to use one each to transport the basilisk parts.

When she zooms down again, getting to her feet, MacDonald clearly notices the tension. Looking between them, wand flicking to once again clean her grotty robes, the Auror hums.

“I’m not going to ask.”

“I’m closing the Chamber, so no-one but me can get in,” he informs her, before adding, “and Professor Potter, but I don’t think the Guardians will let her into the Library unless I say it’s alright.”

Wilkes looks annoyed. With stiff arms, he takes his own broom out from his pocket, unshrinking the vehicle as MacDonald passes Jenkins’ to Harry. Handling the broom, Harry comes to appreciate his Firebolt even more, feeling the shoddy handling of the Cleansweep beneath him and the lack of power in acceleration.

In Myrtle’s bathroom, Jenkins is organising the basilisk parts in piles, out of the boxes.

“The temporary wards are set up,” he tells them, focused on a particularly large roll of hide. “Though I hid the door for good measure, in case any students get curious.”

“Fred and George will probably want to take a closer look, but I’ll have a word with them,” Harry offers, knowing that while they won’t be the only ones, they’re maybe the wizards who might actually figure out a way to get in anyway, regardless of the Aurors’ wards. Glancing at each of the Aurors in turn, making sure they’re out of the way, Harry turns back to the bathroom sinks.

“ _Close,_ ” he orders, waiting for the sinks to recede into their mouldings before tentatively taking out his wand. Amina’s Library is swimming in his head and it’s hard to think, when he deliberately wades into that vast sea of knowledge – but focusing on the wards and protections used around the Chamber is easier, seeing as there are actual shelves in the Library dedicated to it all, diaries included.

Wand-tip to the snake engraving, Harry focuses on speaking Parsletongue, his magic buzzing in a new, unfamiliar way that makes his legs feel like jelly as he incants. The snake glows green, waiting for a new password.

“ _I am a Speaker,_ ” Harry says clearly. “ _Open sesame._ ”

The snake glows brighter for a moment, before fading. Changing the password makes sense, considering how Voldemort clearly knows where the Chamber entrance is and how to get inside. Harry, as the new Custodian, can only try to prevent him from entering again – and while he’s at it, ensure that Professor Potter, whoever she might be, can’t visit without him knowing, either.

“What was that?” MacDonald queries, curious.

“…security,” Harry mutters. “Are we done here?”

“Just bagging and tagging,” Jenkins chirps happily, heaving the basilisk’s skeleton single-handedly out of the expanded space, curling it around the circular centre of the room. Floating above them, Myrtle _oohs_ and _aahs_ , making the man grin. “I’d happily spend all day going through this.”

“I’d rather not,” MacDonald cringes. “Not everyone enjoys taking apart dead things, Jenkins.”

“Don’t spoil his fun,” Wilkes sighs tiredly, shaking his head. His hand rises, running through his short blonde locks in a drawn-out motion. “Alright. Potter, we’re going to deal with the carcass for you and get it officially processed at a Magical Wildlife Centre-”

“Probably the Hebridean Black Reserve in Skye!” Jenkins adds, “It’s the closest.”

“-and write to you afterwards. You can either have them sent to your Gringotts Vault; posted to you here at Hogwarts, which I would not advise;” Wilkes lists, counting them off on his fingers, “or sell them off to buyers. If you go with the third option, you can either go private, for which I would recommend using the goblins as liaisons; commercial via the open market, which I would, again, recommend using the goblins as liaisons for; or through the government. The last would involve you handing off most everything to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures for a set price.”

“…right,” Harry replies weakly, overwhelmed with his choices. “How- how long till the basilisk is… _processed?_ ”

Wilkes looks to Jenkins, who pauses, thinking. “I’d say, maybe a month or less, depending on whether or not any other dragons or large beasts have died. It could take longer and become a bit pricey, too, if the tanning process is more complicated than normal. This basilisk is old – very old. I’d be surprised if you didn’t have to pay an extra sack of galleons to get the wix up at the Reserve to deal with it.”

“Why?” Harry questions.

“Older the beast, more magic it’s corpse contains,” Jenkins explains calmly. “Not every beast reacts the same way to the usual techniques, so more… _adventurous_ avenues have to be discussed. Don’t worry about it, though – you’ve involved the Corps, i.e. the Ministry, so any further fees accrued will be paid out of the Ministry coffers, regardless of your Hunting Claim.”

Harry hears lots of words like _hunting claim_ and _further fees_ and is decidedly confused, even if they make sense the more he thinks about them. He also wonders whether Hagrid’s blast-ended skrewts would cost more to be ‘processed’ once they died, or if Hagrid would simply bury them in the Forbidden Forest and pretend they never existed – because after even just _one_ class with them, it’s clear to Harry that they aren’t your average magical creature.

Returning Jenkins’ broom to MacDonald, Harry asks Wilkes, “What now?”

“You can go,” Wilkes flashes him a smile. “I’m sure you’re looking forwards to bed. It’s getting late – I’m sure you’re tired. It was nice meeting you.”

Harry nods, even though he doesn’t agree. He’s buzzing with energy and he still has to talk to Ron and Hermione to see if they told Captain Deirdre about the time turner. He goes to set off, only, MacDonald touches his shoulder, holding him back.

“Wait,” she says, “Before you go, just to remind you – you can’t talk about what you discussed with Captain Deirdre.”

“I know,” Harry replies, glancing at her pale hand on his robes. After a second, it retreats and he gives them all short, awkward waves, ducking out of the bathroom. The floor is still wet, squelching under his dirty shoes that will need cleaned and polished, later, if he wants to use them tomorrow. Harry makes his way to Gryffindor Tower.

“It was very awkward,” Parvati says in a stilted tone when his year group all meets up in the boy’s dorm. They’re sitting on the beds – Ron and Hermione on Harry’s with him, Neville hesitantly sat on his trunk and Parvati and Lavender squeezed up beside Seamus and Dean on Ron’s. “I didn’t actually have a lot to say,” she continues, sounding slightly ashamed.

“It’s alright,” Harry says with a forced levity, “I had enough for all of you, probably.”

Ron shudders. “He was in our _house._ ”

“Well, I for one am glad that Professor Potter was able to involve the Aurors at all,” Hermione says quietly, watching Ron as he plays with the ragged end of his sleeve. “Did you ask to be inspected by a Legillimens?”

Ron nods, miserable.

“We’ll all do it,” Dean volunteers, looking between them all, “Right?”

Immediately, there’s a torrent of _yesses_ and _of course’_ s, but Ron doesn’t look any happier.

“They’re going to get my mum and dad involved,” he says morosely. “And Ginny and Fred and George and Percy – maybe even Bill and Percy, too.”

Harry nudges him. “It’s a good thing, mate. What if something…what if something _has_ happened? At least then you’ll all know. It’d be proof, too, to get him incarcerated.”

“He’d get worse, actually,” Parvati shakes her head, clutching Lavender’s hand. “Ron’s part of _Dom Wielisław_ , from the Continent. Assault against a minor of an Ancient House would get Pettigrew the Dementor’s Kiss.”

Ron shudders again as Hermione frowns, nose wrinkling. “ _Dom_ _Wielisław?_ What does that mean?”

“House Wielisław,” Ron mutters, cheeks reddening. “Uh, it’s- it’s sort of like the Malfoy’s. They’re a more recent branch of the Fortier’s, but, uh- but we’re from the Ancient House of Wielisław, from Poland. Official family stuff is dealt with by…uh, Kacsper? Yeah, Kacsper Wielisław, the Lord of Wielisław.”

“It differs country to country,” Parvati tells Hermione, “but if Arthur Weasley was in big enough trouble that he’d have to bring up the Weasley’s in an official Wizengamot Court Session, it’d probably be a better idea for him to ask Lord Wielisław to stand in his place and call a House Moot, instead.”

“Can I write this down?” Hermione climbs up onto Harry’s bed proper, reaching for a nearby scroll of parchment Harry had written down his Herbology notes on that morning.

“It’s not information you can really use, Hermione,” Lavender attempts to gently redirect her, but Harry only watches in amusement as she sets herself up with a quill and ink, scribbling down what Parvati and Ron already said.

“What’s a Moot?” she questions. “Why would Mr Weasley call a Moot instead of leaving it with the Wizengamot? The Wizengamot are a jury of peers, aren’t they?”

“Dad can’t call a Moot,” Ron shakes his head, “He’s not that powerful. Lucius Malfoy probably could convince someone _else_ to call a Moot on his behalf, though – the Malfoy’s and the Fortier’s don’t get on, so he’s got his own influence and he’s rich, to boot.”

“Mr Weasley would have to ask Lord Wielisław to call a Moot, if one was needed,” Parvati clarifies.

“Why don’t the Malfoy’s and the Fortier’s get on?” Harry questions, “Did the Malfoy’s do something?”

Seamus snorts, “It’s in the name, isn’t it? ‘Bad faith’ – the Malfoy’s seceded from the Fortier’s six hundred years ago when the second-born daughter was named Heiress Fortier, instead of her older sister.”

Hermione is fascinated. “But why? What was the proper reason?”

“The original Malfoy married the son of a Veela and her daughter was born one,” Neville answers, voice thin and reedy. Harry’s eyes widen.

“Malfoy’s part-Veela?”

“So it was racism? Magical racism is why the Malfoy’s exist?” Hermione instead presses for answers to her own questions. “And how do you all know this? Is this a famous piece of trivia only purebloods would know the answer to?”

“Oi!” Seamus snaps, “I’m a half-blood!”

Hermione flushes. “Sorry. I just mean- how do you know? Is it common knowledge?”

“It’s old gossip,” Lavender says, sighing. “Well, not _old_ , but not _fresh_ , either. Wix live a long time, ‘Mione.”

“Hermione,” Hermione corrects shortly.

Lavender rolls her eyes, flipping her straightened hair behind her shoulder. Harry can remember her as a first year, when her hair was textured like Hermione’s and she pulled it back in thick plaits held together with bright pink hair bobbles.

“Well, _anyway,_ because the Malfoy’s have creature blood, it makes them look a certain way and until that stops, it’s still gossip – though, it’ll _still_ be gossip afterwards, obviously,” Lavender states.

“Parvati,” Harry addresses her suddenly, catching her attention. He feels awkward, with her eyes on him, the words struggling to leave his mouth. “You’re- you’re from India, right?”

“Yes?”

“Well- well, Professor Potter, she-” Harry clears his throat, getting straight to the point. “She said we were from- the Potter’s, I mean- she said we were from the…‘ _Pandyan Empire’?_ Do you know what that is?”

“Of course,” Parvati replies, blinking in surprise. She stares at him for a long moment. “You really don’t know, do you? Like, you don’t know a single _thing_ about the Potter’s.”

Harry flinches, the words stinging. “No,” he says shortly. “I don’t.”

“Oh,” Parvati says simply, falling quiet.

“…the Pandyan Empire? How long ago was that?” Hermione questions, eyes darting between them.

“The Potter line was famous before that,” Parvati says, next words tentative, “though they weren’t called Potter’s, then.”

She looks at Harry nervously and starkly, Harry realises she _knows._

“Slythrynn,” he says. His housemates stare – even Ron looks startled. “Professor Potter is a Parslemouth,” Harry reveals, “because we’re descended from the Slythrynn’s – or, _Slytherin,_ now, I suppose.”

Harry looks to Parvati for confirmation, a little relieved at her agreeing nod.

“They were the magical advisors to the Pandyan monarchs for generations,” Parvati enthuses, smiling a little, now. “The Sixth of the Five Great Assemblies.”

“Professor Potter said that, too!” Harry straightens. “What about the Patil’s?”

Parvati scoffs, grinning, “Oh, we were part of another empire. Great rivals, were the Slythrynn and the Patil. We mostly kept to the Indian subcontinent and surrounding countries – but the Slythrynn’s ranged far and wide, from Africa, to Asia, all the way to Britain.”

“Greece, too,” Harry can’t help but add, remembering Amina’s diaries describing her time there.

Parvati gives him an odd look, “Really?”

Harry goes to say _yeah_ , to agree, but cuts himself off before he can speak. _I know nothing else, but I know **that?** That’s too weird, too random._ He’s been caught, though and more than just Parvati is giving him a weird look now. He tries to turn it around and distract them.

“Seamus – what about you?” Harry prods, “Ireland, right?”

“…yeah,” Seamus shifts on Ron’s bed, grabbing his pillow and pushing it up further into the headboard, shuffling away from where Dean is pressing against him in an attempt to sit further away from Lavender. “Mum’s family. We’re not much, anymore, since the Faerie Courts died. We had more power when our patrons were alive. There’s a delegation sent out to join the House Moot every meeting, but the Finnegan’s stay out of it. We keep to ourselves.”

“Patrons?” Hermione says, voice questioning.

“Yeah, the Seelie and Unseelie used to deal with us in blood and magic, but not anymore,” Seamus shrugs.

“Every civilisation dies, eventually,” says Parvati with a small shrug.

“Fascinating,” Hermione breathes, “Why don’t we learn about this in History of Magic?”

“People learn at home, usually,” Parvati says wryly. “Not muggleborns – or half-bloods, sometimes,” Parvati gives Harry a sudden, piercing look, “which is a _travesty_ , by the way. Professor Potter sounds like she knows about your family. She can teach you.”

“Alright,” Harry mutters, glancing at Ron. “Do you learn this stuff, too?”

“Uh, well…yeah, I suppose,” Ron says, flushing. “It’s just stuff mum and dad talk about, you know? Stuff we learnt growing up. I mean-” he looks to Seamus, motioning in his direction “-I didn’t know about the Irish. Dealing with the Faerie Courts? That’s tough magic, mate.”

Seamus flashes a toothy grin and for a second, Harry thinks his eyes are red. He says, “Aye, it is” and then, _then_ Harry is sure he sees it – bright scarlet leaking into hazel, entrapping him for the space of a moment before Seamus looks away, releasing him.

“The fact that you know _at all_ and muggle-raised _don’t_ is the problem!” Hermione exclaims, missing it, frustrated with her lack of knowledge. “Oh, I _do_ hope History of Magic tomorrow is interesting.”

Harry and Ron exchange a look, recalling their earlier lesson in Divination.

“Hey, Hermione,” Ron smiles slowly, Harry already grinning. “What do you know about the Druidic Archives?”


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER 4**

“Eggs, Harry?” Hermione offers when they sit down to breakfast.

Harry shrugs, “Sure.” He picks up his plate, watching her ladle a healthy portion on top of his toast. Ron is too busy shovelling bacon in his mouth to verbally reply when Hermione asks him, but he does manage a garbled “ _D’ank-oo!_ ” when she spoons them onto the only remaining space left on his plate.

“What do you think History of Magic’s going to be like?” Harry questions, glancing up at where Professor Potter herself is curled up on her chair beside the Headmaster, a bright yellow blanket pulled around her shoulders. “Is she still in her pyjamas?”

Ron cranes his neck, “Huh,” he swallows, “Yeah, I think she is. Never seen that before.”

“I bet the Headmaster will wear his pyjamas to breakfast too, now,” Hermione smiles a little, Harry rolling his eyes at the thought – of _course_ their eccentric headmaster _would_.

However, when Harry thinks of Professor Potter and Professor Dumbledore, he can’t help recall how Captain Darcy’s face darkened at the mention of the headmaster and Snape; Professor Potter had obviously been part of that.

Harry looks back up at the woman, watching how she grins at the man. _Does she even like him or is it all an act?_

“I wonder what texts she’ll be using in her classes,” Hermione ponders out loud, “There wasn’t any new history book on the booklist.”

“She knows a lot,” Harry recalls his Divination class, “I think she’s going to lecture, mostly. Ask us stuff about what we know and answer our own questions.”

“Parvati was asking about frost snakes yesterday,” Ron says after swallowing a rather large mouthful of food. “Said that was more of a Hagrid question, though.”

“Frost snakes?” Hermione repeats, obviously fascinated, “I’ve never heard of those before!”

“They’re from the Himalayas, apparently,” Harry informs her, eating a sausage. “You could probably ask Hagrid about them.”

“I will, later,” Hermione nods to herself, munching on an apple as she opens her planner for the day. “We’ve got Care before lunch. I’ll go down during break to ask him before class starts.”

“He’ll probably recruit you to feed the skrewts,” Ron snorts. Hermione gives him a dirty look in reply.

Once they finish their breakfast, Harry and Ron scram back to Gryffindor Tower to collect their school bags, while Hermione goes onwards with Neville to the new history classroom. By the time they make it back, the bell has already rung and Professor Potter is giving them an unimpressed face.

“Boys, I _know_ you were in the Great Hall this morning at a good time,” she says tiredly, “I think you saw me, at least.”

“Sorry, Professor,” they say as one, edging towards the table where Hermione is – only for Professor Potter to shake her head.

“Everyone stand up – we’re going by alphabetical order for seating arrangements, here.”

There are some noises of protest and Harry’s stomach flips, realising he won’t be with Ron _or_ Hermione – and because the new History of Magic class clearly has all four Houses together…

“I know it seems unfair you aren’t with your friends, but there’s a reason for that. Some of you might be lucky enough to be with your friends from other houses and that’s okay, I suppose,” Professor Potter shrugs, “but otherwise, no – friend groups aren’t happening, not this year.”

“Isn’t this a rather… _large_ class?” Hermione questions in the ensuing silence.

“Yes, but I asked for it and if any of you feel neglected in class because of the vast number of you or for any other reason, then you can come during your Wednesday study hall to invade my office,” she informs them. “Ravenclaw and Gryffindor were supposed to have History of Magic together today and Friday and Hufflepuff and Slytherin, the double-period on Wednesday. Now, line up according to your last names – go on, now. A to the right, Z to the left.”

Reluctantly, the Hogwarts fourth years line up according to their last names. Harry finds himself standing between two people he never really interacts with – he’s not even sure he knows the girl on his left’s name.

“Alright, so there’s thirty-seven of you, apparently…oh, this isn’t going to work, actually,” Professor Potter wrinkles her nose, eyeing up all their uniforms. “Okay, scratch that…ish. New plan. I want you all in alphabetical order, still, but in groups of four – one to each house. So if you don’t have someone from another house in the three people to your right, move further up the line.”

There’s another shuffle. Harry looks at his new neighbours and recognises Ernie – and then one along on the right, the Slytherin of their four, _Malfoy._

“Okay, looks like whoever has a Hufflepuff on their right, that’s number one of your group, then Ravenclaw, Gryffindor and Slytherin.”

 _Right, so to my left-_ Harry thinks, looking to his left and accidentally starting a staring contest with a Slytherin girl he’s never interacted with in his entire Hogwarts career.

“Mr Zabini, is it? If you’d like to choose which group to join, then we’ll have a final group of five.”

“I’ll join Crabbe’s group,” Zabini says from the very end of the line, an expression on his face Harry thinks he recognises from primary school, each time he was last chosen for team sports in PE.

“Very good. Take a note of who is in your group, because you’ll be working with them until the winter break! Two groups to a table – stay away from your friends. I _will_ separate you,” Professor Potter warns, before shooing them off, going over to her desk under the window, dark grey robes shimmering in the light.

 _Is that glitter?_ Harry raises an eyebrow at the sparkle, before Ernie clears his throat and motions their group across the room, near to Professor Potter’s desk, but in the corner, furthest from the door.

“I’m Ernie, Ernie Macmillan,” he says, looking at the Slytherin of their group.

“Lily. Lily Moon,” she introduces, glancing at their Ravenclaw, a girl with twin braids and thin eyes that would have had her called a _Jap_ , in Little Whinging. “You’re MacDougal.”

“Morag,” she says, rather vicious. Morag holds onto her satchel tightly, eyeing all three of them like they’re about to snatch it off her shoulder.

“…I’m Harry Potter,” Harry adds, even though they all know who he is. Getting a trio of nods, Harry sits, not expecting the other group at their table to be Parvati’s.

“Save me,” she begs him, grabbing his robe, “Your aunt says I’m not allowed to sit with Lav’s group!”

Harry blinks at her abrupt closeness. “Uhh…” he glances across at where Lavender is pouting, in a group with Hannah Abbott, Terry Boot and Millicent Bulstrode. “Right, I-”

“Professor Potter’s _really_ your aunt?” Ernie interrupts, “Her son is in Hufflepuff. He says his name is ‘Teddy’ and that his mother has been dying to teach at Hogwarts for _years_ now – she was a curse breaker, before.”

“I’d never met her before yesterday,” Harry says honestly, shaking Parvati’s hand off his robe as gently as he can. As the class settles, Professor Potter smiles at them from behind her desk.

“Alright! Does everyone know who their group members are?” she pauses, the chatter abating. “Good. Means I don’t have to make nametags for you – _that_ would be embarrassing. You’ve been in school with these people for three years already and there _really_ isn’t a lot of you. Who knows what the highest ever student population of Hogwarts is?”

Harry looks around, expecting Hermione to have her hand up – but even she looks a little caught-out by the question.

“Here’s your answer: ten thousand and four.” Professor Potter pauses, before continuing. “Just so you understand what that means, the current population of Hogwarts is only four hundred and sixty-three. The current number of students has been cut down and at the height of its capacity, Hogwarts can take up to twenty times as many students as it can. Hogwarts is majorly understaffed, even now.”

She stands, tugging off her glimmering grey robe, hanging it up on a peg by her chair to reveal a black pair of trousers, a dark green turtleneck and ankle-boots. She flicks her wand, a china tea-set appearing on her desk with a stack of biscuits.

“This class is mainly going to be discussion and projects that you’ll work on in groups. I’ll lecture on Tuesdays and assign you research to be compiled with your group into presentations outside of class,” she says, flicking her wand again. Harry jerks as he realises more tea-set’s have appeared, plates loaded with all sorts of biscuits and savoury snacks materialising in the middle of each table. “I will not accept late presentations. I will not accept only one person doing the work. You _will_ meet outside of class to compile your research topics.”

Someone raises their hand. “Professor?”

“Yes? What’s your name?”

“Sally, Sally Perks. What are we doing for homework?”

“Individual assignments will be handed out once or twice a month, depending on your current grade, based on your work within the group assignments. Teachers have ways of checking to see how much individual effort goes into these things,” Professor Potter explains calmly. She tucks her wand away, pouring herself a cup of tea by hand. “Help yourself to the food and drinks, by the way. If you want something different next Tuesday, you can write your request on the parchment by the door and I’ll ask the house-elves if it’s possible.”

Harry glances at Parvati, who shrugs lightly, reaching forwards to get them cups and saucers. There’s a few minutes of quiet, where people pour tea and gather biscuits, before Professor Potter clears her throat.

“Alright. Today _is_ going to be a slow day, obviously, because it’s our first session. I’ll go back and forth between classroom conduct, todays lesson and other things as I remember them, so just…relax,” Professor Potter pauses, before beginning.

“I told you just before that I will not accept late presentations and lack of group-work, just to reiterate that. You’re all fourth years, here, with OWL’s next year. I’m currently working on a new History of Magic exam with the Board, but likely, it won’t be implemented until the next school year. This unfortunately means I’ll be putting OWL students first, because they have to cram in both _my_ curriculum _and_ Professor Binns’ course.”

Hermione’s hand goes up. “But Professor, that’s hardly fair for them!”

“No, Miss Granger, it’s not,” Professor Potter gives a tight smile. “Earlier, I said that you can bother me in your study hall. Like any teacher, I also have office-hours, but here is where I’d like you to be courteous to the fifth-years. I’d rather _they_ came see me during office-hours and you guys keep to study-hall, though if you _are_ struggling, ignore everything I just said and come and have a chat. My office is just next door, to the left,” Professor Potter points to the other side of the class, opposite the window and her desk.

Harry sees another hand – surprisingly, from Malfoy, of all people. “Professor?”

“Yes, Mr…”

“Malfoy. What _are_ we going to be studying?”

“History of Magic, of course,” Professor Potter grins cheekily, before shaking her head. “Couldn’t help it, sorry. No, we’ll be discussing origins of magic, British wizarding society through the ages and international history. Assignments both individual and group will be directed at specific events. My syllabus will be available to pick up outside of class time.”

Malfoy nods, looking slightly impressed, “Thank-you, Professor.”

“No problem, Mr Malfoy. Any more questions about the course?” She questions cheerily, another few hands popping up – mostly people like Hermione who want to know exactly what they’ll be studying. Professor Potter is good at redirecting them, thankfully. She gives them short answers, saying they can pick up her syllabus, wait like everyone else or simply says _yes_ or _no_.

Padma, Parvati’s twin sister from Ravenclaw, in Harry’s opinion asks one of the better questions, because it isn’t about the material.

“What’s going to happen to our groups after Yule?”

“You know what,” Professor Potter smiles at them, “I’m going to wait and see. I’m not sure whether or not you’ll _need_ to be mixed up into new groups. Part of putting you into groups like this is to push interhouse friendship. No need to look so divided when Beauxbatons and Durmstrang get here – which reminds me!”

Professor Potter puts her tea down, moving across the room to the blank wall across from the window, reaching up to pull down a large, rolled-up tapestry. Harry cranes to see, blinking when he sees it’s a tapestry of Hogwarts, four familiar proud figures sewn standing in front of it.

“Hogwarts, a history,” Professor Potter twirls around, grinning. “Who here knows the popularly-known Hogwarts’ origin story? The Four Founders built the school to teach young wix how to wield magic, etcetera, etcetera. A show of hands, if you please.”

Harry raises his hand, frowning, thinking it a little redundant – the Sorting Hat sung about it every year.

“Now…who here knows that story is utter rubbish?” Professor Potter claps her hands together. Harry blinks, lowering his hand quickly – among many, many, _many_ others. The entire class is silent, far from at ease. _It’s not true?_ Harry thinks, wondering if he’s somehow been deceived. _Hogwarts was made for students, right?_

Professor Potter glances at Harry then, smiling wistfully. “Alright, then. Hogwarts: hoggy, warty Hogwarts. Quick-fire question: what is the average lifespan of a wix?”

“Two hundred,” say a startling amount of people as one – Harry is _not_ one.

“Really?” Harry mutters, glancing at Parvati for confirmation. She frowns at him, but nods.

“This castle was built several thousand years ago,” Professor Potter begins, “Four thousand and ninety-two, to be exact. There have been many addendums in that time, such as the Headmaster’s tower three thousand and fifteen years ago in ten twenty-one BC and the greenhouses in thirteen-eighty BC.”

The older Potter travels through the class again, returning to her desk, still speaking as she walks – Harry has a feeling it’ll be a theme with her.

“The Forbidden Forest used to range from here throughout the Cairngorms, until descendants of Helga Hufflepuff, the Smith’s, spelled the area and placed the majority of the forest inside an undetectable expansion ward. It was and is still one of the greatest feats of magic known to Britain, though similar wards have been replicated across the globe in various different ways.”

Harry grabs a biscuit as he listens to her, slightly enraptured. Her words are clear and lively, unlike Professor Binns’ exhausting drone – but she’s slow enough that he can keep up, understanding without having to dive into the library in his head to confirm her words. It aches to keep it all back, stuck, hurting like he has a pin shoved against his scalp, but Harry _has_ to keep it all safe; no-one can help him, anyway.

“Another quick-fire question – which, by the way, I’ll be doing a lot of. Just shout out the answer if you know it, don’t bother if you don’t. Most of them are random and… _vaguely_ irrelevant to the topic.” Professor Potter advises them before querying them. “When was the house-point system implemented?”

Hermione spits out the answer so fast Harry can’t hear her and Harry thinks Professor Potter repeats it slower, so everyone can hear; but he’s too busy listening to Ernie muttering to bother.

“Know-it-all.”

Harry chucks his biscuit at Ernie’s head and it hits him clear between the eyes, prompting him to let out a short yelp. Summarily, however, the plate of biscuits disappears.

“Mr Potter, I know your name isn’t Dursley,” Professor Potter says in a calm voice, even as Harry’s eyes widen, “so stop acting like it. Only toddlers and pigs in wigs throw food. Throwing food or otherwise abusing the privilege of tea and munchies gets the full table’s right revoked until there’s nothing left.”

“He called Hermione a know-it-all!” Harry exclaims.

“I know,” Professor Potter says, “I heard. If you had waited two seconds before throwing a biscuit at him, I would have done something. As it is, I think his punishment will be enough.”

“Punishment?” Ernie questions, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“An apology, Mr Macmillan,” Professor Potter smirks slightly. “Also, your entire year just saw you take a biscuit square to the face because you were stupid enough to insult the Gryffindor Seeker’s best friend right in front of him. Personally, I think it’s hilarious – don’t you all?”

Harry watches as Ernie goes red-faced, the rest of the class begins snickering. When the noise clears up, Professor Potter is still silent, watching Ernie. The quiet continues, stretching out into a slightly eerie state.

“…well? Are you going to apologise to Miss Granger?” Professor Potter’s face is blank, but she’s clearly waiting for Ernie to retaliate.

Ernie shrinks in his seat though, cowed, muttering _“Sorry, Granger”_ loud enough to be heard across the classroom. Harry glances at his friend and Hermione looks slightly embarrassed, but nods in acceptance, looking at Professor Potter thoughtfully.

“In my class, name-calling and bullying is unacceptable. I don’t believe in house-points, personally, so be assured that I _will_ be creative in my punishments.” Professor Potter is almost glaring by the end of her speech, “And I will only say this word _once_ , but if I hear the slur _mudblood_ in my classroom or anywhere in my vicinity, you will get an automatic detention. Am I clear?”

“ _Yes, professor_ ,” comes the general consensus.

Professor Potter breathes in. “Good. Now, back to Hogwarts. The school itself, as an institution, was founded by the men and women you all well know: Rowena Ravenclaw, Salazar Slytherin, Helga Hufflepuff and Godric Gryffindor. _However_ , the creation of the castle and the school do not coincide, in fact they’re several hundred years apart. While the castle was built twenty ninety-eight BC, Hogwarts was founded in sixteen forty-three BC.”

Hermione’s hand shoots up, “But Professor! That’s not what it says in _Hogwarts, a History_.”

“Bathilda Bagshot cannot do mathematics, much like a lot of old biddies her age,” Professor Potter says. “She knew Albus Dumbledore when he was in nappies.”

Harry sees Ron spit up his tea across the class.

“I don’t like Bathilda. She knows a lot, but she can’t do maths and that… _annoys_ me,” Professor Potter grimaces. “Personal prejudice aside though, she can’t count for the life of her, gets a lot of dates mixed up…”

Professor Potter points upwards in a _eureka_ moment, slowly becoming more and more excitable as the class goes by.

“Which once again reminds me! Essays and group-work _must_ have at least three reputable sources notated per six foot of parchment. I’m not quite aware what all the books Hogwarts library has available, exactly, but by October I should have narrowed down the titles you should avoid. _Hogwarts, a History_ is fine for events and accuracy, however as I said, Bagshot’s mathematics skill is lacking. I’ll post the list somewhere in my classroom on Halloween and forgive you if your bibliographies are sketchy until that time.”

“Three per six _foot?_ ” Hermione questions, sounding appalled.

“Quality, not quantity, Miss Granger,” Professor Potter says delicately. “Professor Snape decided he would ‘warn me’ about your essays, as unfortunate as that sounds. I’d kick him, if I could – as I said, I do not tolerate bullying, from students _or_ teachers.”

She pauses, “This goes for all of you, though: essays should not be any longer or shorter than half a foot off the stated measurement. Your handwriting must be legible and in an appropriate size. Essays also should not deviate from your assigned topic. These are my parameters: follow them.”

There’s another long moment of silence, before Professor Potter picks up her tea and circles the room, returning to her lecture.

“The Founders of Hogwarts did indeed want to create a school, towards the ends of their lives. However, the period itself didn’t lend itself to institutionalism. Instead, the Founders propagated the idea of taking more than one apprentice on at a time. Have any of you ever wondered why boys aren’t allowed into the girls’ dorms?” Professor Potter asks in a rhetoric fashion, glancing at them. “It’s because the wards were sent against students in general. What are female dorms _now_ were teacher’s quarters _then_. Time sunk it’s claws into those wards and they weren’t able to be removed, only changed.”

“Who here takes Ancient Runes or Advanced Magical Theory?”

There’s a large show of hands.

“Okay, so you guys should be able to guess what kind of wards are on the dormitories. I’ll give you a minute,” Professor Potter says, sipping her tea. Harry watches as a few students furrow their brows, thinking hard – even Hermione.

A Hufflepuff Harry doesn’t know eventually raises his hand. “Professor?”

“What’s your name?” the elder Potter asks.

“Hopkins. Did the dormitory ward used to recognise adult magical cores?”

“Correct! Someone else guess what they’re changed to nowadays.”

Pansy Parkinson sits up straighter, answering the question, to Harry’s surprise. “Was it changed to physical form? Because you can’t tell gender with magic, which is a travesty.”

“You can’t, you’re very right about both of those things, Miss…”

“Parkinson. Pansy Parkinson.”

Professor Potter smiles at her. “Good. Very good, both of you, Hopkins, Parkinson. So, we’ve established that the wards used to keep kids out of the teachers’ rooms were made in each of the living quarters. What does that imply about the Founders, then?”

“…that they took multiple apprentices and lived with them, in the castle,” Parvati says, sounding thoughtful. “Were they the first?”

“The very first – or at least, the first to make themselves known. It wasn’t the done thing, back then. You learnt from family or from nomads who went around adopting apprentices from non-magical families that produced what are known today as muggleborns,” Professor Potter states, eyeing certain students. “Nomads or wandering wix are known to non-magical people as many different beings within their own mythologies. Could the muggle-raised maybe guess as to what sort of mythical creatures I’m referring to?”

Harry thinks hard, putting up his hand. He tries to ignore how people give him funny looks, especially when Professor Potter nods at him.

“Changelings? Like, the muggle story where fairies swapped real children with bricks and golems and…” Harry hesitates, remembering how Dudley once emptied a jar of nails into his cupboards, saying _the elves will take you away_ , “…stuff.”

“That’s an interesting one to get into, actually, because it combines the Irish Faerie Courts _and_ nomads,” Professor Potter smiles, tapping her wand against her desk. “You can get your biscuits back.”

“ _Yes!_ ” Lily exclaims to herself when they rematerialise, immediately reaching for a custard cream and flushing when she finds half the class staring at her. “What?” she questions, defensive. “I love biscuits!”

“Eyes up,” Professor Potter catches their attention again. “In muggle mythology, changelings were children who acted strangely and were thought to be replacements for their real children, who were taken away by the Faerie Courts. Truthfully, very rarely were muggle children taken by the Faerie Courts, if ever. Children could be wished away or given as sacrifice, of course, but that’s sixth-year material.”

“There’s a lot to think about when studying a different time period. You can’t transplant events into different parts of history because often, the culture and customs that predicted or caused the events themselves have changed or don’t exist anymore. Can anyone give me an example of a historical event?” Professor Potter proposes, munching on a Jammie Dodger as she looks around the classroom. “Magical or muggle, it doesn’t matter.”

Terry Boot is picked out of the raised hands. “The Napoleonic War?”

“Bit of a big event,” Professor Potter jokes. “Let’s narrow it down – say, to the Battle of Waterloo, Napoleon’s defeat.”

“Who’s Napoleon?” Goyle grunts, sat beside Seamus and Justin Finch-Fletchley at the table beside Harry’s, in front of Professor Potter’s desk.

“Napoleon Bonaparte was a Corsican who rose high within the French non-magical military and went on to take a huge part in French politics,” Professor Potter sums it up. “Napoleon crowned himself Emperor of France in eighteen oh-four and battled onwards to take over the vast majority of west and central Europe. The Battle of Waterloo took place in Belgium in eighteen fifteen. Napoleon’s forces were defeated by non-magical Britain and Prussia, ending the reign of the French Empire.”

Another Slytherin girl Harry doesn’t recognise raises her hand. “Was there a coinciding magical war? It’s a recent theme, what with the two muggle wars, Grindelwald and You-Know-Who.”

“It is a theme and there’s a reason for that,” Professor Potter says, “and to make a long story short, yes, there was. The French Ministry got cocky and tried to take over the International Confederacy of Wizards, which partly succeeded, as there is now a separate organisation called the West Europe Council of Sorcerers or _Conseil des Sorciers d'Europe de l'Ouest_ , where French is the first language.”

“ _Anyway,_ Napoleon and the Battle of Waterloo,” Professor Potter moves again, shimmying between Harry’s table and Goyle’s, almost speaking to herself. “In my head, I’m attempting to transpose the Battle of Waterloo to the present day to teach you more about the importance of learning about ancient cultures, but it isn’t working because the vast majority of you have no working knowledge about the Napoleonic Wars and I can’t simplify it or give you Cliffs Notes. I have too much history in my head if I can remember all seven coalitions that took place during the Great French War.”

“That’s really impressive,” Morag MacDougal mutters to herself, only barely loud enough for Harry to hear.

Professor Potter sighs, rubbing under the bridge of her glasses. “Sorry, kids. I didn’t really have much of a plan for today. Thought we might play the circle game or something…meet and greet, mostly.” She looks at the clock, “Jesus, it’s only quarter to ten. I still have forty-five minutes to use up. Christ on a bike.”

“Don’t blaspheme,” comes a quiet scolding from a mousy-haired Ravenclaw girl who scowls at the Professor. Surprisingly, the elder Potter cringes.

“Sorry. It’s habit. At least Jesus would find it funny, I suppose – imagine Christ _actually_ on a bike. He was a real person, you know.”

“Who _is_ Jesus?” Malfoy scoffs, “Some muggle?”

“He was a holy man who genuinely believed in his God,” Professor Potter states, voice genial. “The Catholic Church later skewed history to the benefit of their theocracy and called him the human son of God, an inaccurate and frankly disgraceful spit upon his memory and faith.”

Harry blinks, surprised. “Jesus Christ was _real?_ ” Harry blurts out, not having thought Jesus was anything more than a character from a book.

Professor Potter’s lip twitches. “Yes, he was. Just like Merlin was real and High Priestesses Nimue, Circe and Morgana were real. Which is why people use their names as curses and why some people are pedantic about using their names in vain. Blasphemy is acting or speaking in a sacrilegious manner – or simply speaking profanely.”

“So, if I shouted ‘Merlin’s underpants!’, then I’m blaspheming?” Ron questions loudly, to the scattered laughter of their year-mates.

“Considering how Merlin is seen as a beacon of magical practice amongst wizard-kind, I’d say so,” Professor Potter grins, crossing her arms. “Alright. I’m making this a free-for-all session. Any question you can think of, ask – and if I can’t answer, I turn it over to all of you guys here and now- oh!”

Professor Potter jumps, clearly excited, “Hah, first group assignment of the term! Unplanned and brilliant. Listen up, kids – in your teams, I want you to write down a list of eight questions you’d like answered about history, culture or anything else; _really_ go for it, I’m not kidding. It can be as ridiculous as you want, magical or muggle, so long as all four of you agree it’s something you want answered. You have…”

Professor Potter glances at her watch, pushing up her sleeve and squinting at it, announcing, “Ten minutes. Write down your questions and after, I’ll go around each of your groups and answer one question of your choice. The best question of the afternoon gets a prize. Ready, set – go!”

There is an immediate flurry of activity, but strangely, not much noise. Harry looks to his group hesitantly and realises why – he doesn’t know these people. There are hundreds of questions he wants to ask, now he has the opportunity, but some of them make him embarrassed just thinking about asking aloud.

Ernie, bless him, clears his throat and starts an awkward discussion, “Why- why don’t we all come up with two questions each? There’s four of us, after all.”

“That’s a good idea,” the Slytherin girl – Harry thinks she said her name was Lily – pulls a quill and parchment out of her bag, using the communal pot in the desk to write their names at the top. Harry cranes to see, squinting to read _Lily Moon, Morag MacDougal, Ernie Macmillan, Harry Potter_ , watching as she puts the numbers one to eight equally spaced apart on the edge downwards. She bites her lip, fidgeting at the attention the group is paying her.

“I want to know if she really _can_ remember all the seven coalitions in the Napoleonic Wars,” Morag blurts out. Harry looks over at the Ravenclaw, watching her hide her red face in her tea.

“…okay,” Lily says, glancing at Ernie and Harry. “She said anything, yes? If MacDougal wants to know, then we shouldn’t stop her.”

“Yeah, that’s fine – if our teacher’s going to brag, we might as well check her bluff, huh?” Ernie smiles, but it’s more a baring of his teeth in his nervousness. Harry nods quickly in agreement.

“Number one: what are the Seven Coalitions in the Napoleonic Wars?” Lily reads out as she writes, before sitting up straighter. “What about a question about Hogwarts? She seems to know a lot.”

“Oh!” Ernie exclaims, “What are the four ways to get into each of the common rooms?”

“She’s only going to answer one,” Harry interjects, recalling what she said. “The rest are for us.”

“Well, it’ll be easy, then, won’t it?” Ernie points out. “We’re all from each of the four Houses, so it’s one we can answer without even going to the library – we’re our _own_ references.”

“That’s really clever,” Morag mutters, making herself another cup of tea. “I didn’t have breakfast. Where does out food come from, anyway? Do the house-elves have a secret farm in the Forbidden Forest?”

“Can we put that down?” Lily asks, “I’d like to know, too.”

Harry thinks about the muggle world, where shops get food from factories after farmers have sold them at markets – he knows that much about the supply chain. Where _do_ house-elves get the food for their dramatic feasts? Hagrid grows the Halloween pumpkins – Harry sees them every year by his hut on the grounds, ginormous in size and extra-tasty, too, if the fillings are used to make October pumpkin pie.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, “‘Where do the house-elves get the food from?’ Write that down.” Harry thinks of the kind of things Professor Potter has talked about before. Wars, ancient magic, archives-

 _Wait,_ something slows down in his brain, _wait._

Wars.

Ancient magic.

Archives.

Harry looks up at where Professor Potter is happily over-viewing their class, sitting back in her desk with her boots kicked up. Harry recalls how she lectured in their Divination class – because she had her other class scheduled to go on a tour with Professor Moody and the third years. _She already has everything figured out,_ he realises. _So why is she acting so unprepared with **us**?_

“Potter,” Lily draws his attention back to the group. “What do you want to find out?”

Harry blanks. “Uh,” he draws up nothing, as if his mind were suddenly empty and hollow. “I don’t…I mean,” Harry struggles, looking around for inspiration and finding it in the tapestry of Hogwarts and the Founders, “Do the Founders have descendants?”

“What if one of the castle ghosts is related to them?” Ernie gushes, Lily smiling to herself.

“Number four and five: are there any descendants of the Founders living today and are any of the ghosts relatives?”

“Three more,” Morag mutters, before Professor Potter clears her throat.

“I can see some of you are still discussing, so I’ll just add another five minutes to the clock. At ten o’clock, I’ll pick a number out of the hat – I’ll number your groups for now, but I expect a great team name by Friday, alright?” the elder Potter wiggles her eyebrows, dreadfully enthusiastic. Harry puffs out a breath, a little frustrated now by the continual House merging.

 _Team names? We aren’t friends – why do we have to make our own little clubs?_ Scowling slightly, Harry slumps over his desk with cross arms, bumping Ernie’s saucer with his elbow.

“Careful there, Harry,” he warns cheerfully. “You’ve got another question and Moon’s got two.”

“Her name’s Lily,” Harry mutters.

“I didn’t say you could use it, though,” Lily says sharply, confusing Harry – which must show on his face, because she frowns at him. “It’s only polite. Didn’t your guardians teach you basic manners?”

“I grew up with muggles,” Harry looks at the table, focusing on the wood-grain. “Don’t know a lot of stuff, apparently.”

“Oh,” Lily says, quiet. “Well- well, I’d like to know about the muggle world, then. You can help answer my questions.”

Harry glances at her green and silver robes dubiously. “Really?” he questions, tentative. “Are you sure?”

Lily looks at him crossly. “Very sure. Muggles – they were dangerous to us, once. They killed children who couldn’t defend themselves in the witch trials, not that Professor Binns got into _that_ last year _,_ ” Lily scoffs, scratching her quill across the parchment. “Number six: what new weapons have the muggles built since the implementation of the Statue of Secrecy?”

“You don’t know?” Harry questions, baffled. He looks to Ernie, only to find himself being shrugged at. He looks to Morag, who tilts her hand in a so-so motion. “Right,” he mutters, sitting back in his chair. “Right…my second question.”

“One minute till I pick on you all,” Professor Potter calls.

“Uh…” Harry looks across the classroom, catching sight of Ron’s bright copper hair as it glints in the sunlight. Inspiration hits. “How many dragon reserves are there around the world?”

“Number seven…” Lily mumbles, writing it down. “Number eight is mine.” She’s silent for a torturous amount of time and her quill only hits the parchment when Professor Potter calls time. Harry watches as she waves her wand, large purple numbers appearing on each halves of the table where each group sits. In the semi-circle of his group shines a glittering, indigo _9_.

“Alright!” Professor Potter practically skips across the room, stopping at Malfoy’s group with a grin. “Group Fifteen! What is your daring, fantastical question for today?”

Malfoy looks between his group, made up of Sally Perks and two girls Harry swears he’s never seen before in his life. Sally ends up being the one to ask their group’s question – but Harry is distracted, too busy reading what Lily has written down on their parchment.

_Why are muggles so afraid of us?_


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER 5**

Somehow, with the new school-wide enthusiasm for History of Magic and the group-work system that Professor Potter, it turns out, had assigned every year from first through the fifth, Harry had forgotten that their new teacher had a son.

Bumping into him in the Gryffindor common room, Harry is at first confused as to why a Hufflepuff is in the Tower, until he sees the three boys behind him in red, blue and green. _History group,_ he thinks, wondering who exactly had been the first to bring their non-House year-mates into the common room.

“Watch it,” Harry says without thinking, blinking in surprise when he realises he’s looking at his own reflection, except a foot shorter. The boy blinks up at him in brief confusion as Harry doesn’t move, staring. “You’re…Teddy, right? Teddy Potter.”

Teddy Potter takes a small step back, looking him up and down with those strange, emerald eyes as his friends whisper to each other inaudibly. “You’re Harry,” he says, before giving a wide, toothy grin. “Mum said to tell you to come have lunch with us sometime, if I saw you! I’m to go over to hers for lunch on Thursday. Want to come?”

Harry gawks for a second, before Hermione elbows him pointedly, making him wince. “Ow,” he mutters, before smiling awkwardly at the boy. “Yeah, sure. Where?”

“Just her office,” Teddy says, chipper as can be. He grabs one of his friends’ arms, “We’ve got a project for tomorrow, so, gotta go!” Teddy zooms on past Harry, ducking under Ron’s arm as he raises them in a sharp gesture. His friends copy them and Ron stumbles, getting pushed about.

“Little blighters – is it just me, or are they getting shorter every year?” his best friend mutters. Ron himself is growing like a weed – Harry knows he’s jealous, at least, of the foot and a half Ron grew over the summer.

“Rude,” Hermione chuffs, before nudging Harry again lightly. “You’ll get a chance to talk to her, now! You can ask all sorts of questions, like how you’re related and if she’s really your aunt or your cousin and why Teddy looks like you-”

Ron snorts, “They’re related. Everyone looks like their parents.”

“But _genetics_ , Ron,” Hermine scolds, before the trio finish making their way out of the common room, pushing open the Fat Lady’s portrait and stepping down onto the landing. “It’s physically impossible for the both of them to be so similar to Harry, especially seeing as they aren’t his siblings – and people are always saying that Harry gets his eyes from his mother!”

“That _is_ weird,” Harry admits. “Maybe people are just… _wrong._ Maybe my grandmother has green eyes.” It’s strange to think about his grandparents. Harry knows that his aunt and mother’s parents died well before both he and Dudley were born, dying of cancer and in a car crash, respectively. Aunt Petunia still has a scar across her arm from where the windshield blew in.

 _How did my dad’s parents die?_ Harry wonders if Professor Potter knows – if she was alive when they were around, if she remembered them or even knew them at all. _Maybe she’s my half-aunt,_ he thinks, wondering if his grandfather maybe had another child without his grandmother knowing.

“Nah, your grandmum was a Black,” Ron shakes his head, oblivious to how Harry startles at the information. “All Black’s have grey eyes – though I think her mum was a Bulstrode, so maybe she had blue eyes.”

Harry and Hermione goggle at him. “Ron,” Hermione blinks, “why do you know that?”

Ron pauses, glancing at them. “Well…Ignatius Prewett, my mum’s dad, he married Lucretia Black and her dad, Arcturus Black the second was cousins to Euphemia Black, your grandmum.”

“We’re _related?_ ” Harry says, shocked.

“Everyone’s related somehow – though the Black’s are related a bit more than others,” Ron wrinkles his nose, “Like a lot of purists, the gits. The Black’s are worse than most, though. Orion and Walburga Black, they were first cousins and still got married and had kids.”

“That’s _awful_ ,” Hermione says, “I pity their children, if they had any.”

“’Course they did – they’re Sirius’ parents,” Ron says and Harry seriously considers his godfather’s sanity if he’s the son of two cousins. Shuddering slightly at his fate, Harry and his friends walk the halls of Hogwarts, heading outside to sit by the Black Lake instead of in the library for their study hall, which is still stuffy from a summer of stagnation.

When they reach the grassy shore, the trio find Parvati and Lavender sunbathing in swimwear, Dean and Seamus standing guard against onlookers.

“Hey,” Harry greets as they approach, waiting until Ron had unrolled the picnic blanket they’d nicked from the common room cupboard to sit.

“Hi Harry,” the girls chirp as one, Parvati sitting up to smile at him.

“How are you?”

“Good,” Harry says, “You?”

“Just catching the light, though there’s not much of it,” Parvati squints upwards at the sunny blue sky. “I was at the Patil palace in Karachi this summer, so I’m a little spoiled – Lavender was stuck in the middle of nowhere, spending time with her aunt and uncle while her parents were abroad.”

“Where’s Karachi?” Harry asks.

“India – well, Pakistan, now,” Parvati glances at him. “Asia doesn’t really have the concept of a Ministry of Magic, as the magical world there is still led by leading families, but we still follow the muggles in order to keep a form of border-control. The ICW is the only official governing body.”

“That’s…cool,” Harry says, struggling to find a response to that. “So…you have a palace?”

“The Potter’s used to as well, don’t worry,” Parvati says with a small grin, before lying back down, flipping her glossy braid back onto the grass. Harry watches her close her eyes, soaking in what little sun the end of Scottish summer has to offer.

A magical _thwack_ pushes off his arm, stinging a little. Harry looks up at the culprit, scowling at Dean, who looks at him, unimpressed.

“Don’t stare at them, Harry – it’s rude.”

“They’re lying on the grass in bikinis, mate,” Ron replies for him, although Harry hadn’t been paying much attention to her skin in the first place. On the grass, Parvati looks at him through her eyelashes, giggling.

“It’s fine, Dean,” she says, “Harry’s not being perverted. We were chatting.”

“If you’re sure,” Dean says, hesitant. “No offence, Harry, sorry.”

“None taken,” Harry answers, before looking around proper. All along the lake, there are fourth years all in their own group – obviously, they weren’t the only ones taking advantage of the sunshine and the double study hall that afternoon. However, Harry notices something rather odd a little along the shoreline.

“Hey, are you seeing what I’m seeing?” Harry nudges Hermione, pointing covertly towards a mixed group of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. Hermione peers across, gasping slightly.

“What? That…I didn’t even realise!”

“What is it?” Ron squints, frowning. “Is that Neville? Who’s that beside him?”

Seamus sniggers a little. “Looks like someone’s got a boyfriend.”

At the base of a tree in semi-large group of their year-mates, Neville sits beside Stephen Cornfoot, the Ravenclaw’s arm looped around his shoulders. Strangely, Neville looks far more comfortable than normal, nervous demeanour lost and an almost _relaxed_ aura around him. As they watch, Harry sees Stephen press a kiss to Neville’s cheek, causing Harry to shake his head in disbelief.

“It’s been what, a day since History of Magic?” Harry mutters, thinking the change startling in its intensity, even disregarding the fact that this is _Neville_ they’re watching. “How can _one_ class have this much effect?”

“I don’t know, but it’s certainly different,” Hermione says softly. “I’m glad that Neville is making more friends. I mean, it’s not as if we all spent much time with him, outside class and studying.”

Murmurs of agreement come from around the group, Dean commiserating, “I want a girlfriend.”

Various teens in their group give Dean incredulous looks, though Harry doesn’t know why. Seamus especially looks particularly flummoxed.

“Mate,” Seamus starts, clearly perplexed.

Dean gives him a funny look. “What?”

Lavender on the grass turns onto her front, propping her chin up on her hand. “Dean, _really?_ Only Harry’s that oblivious.”

“Oi,” Harry scowls at her, still not understanding. Hermione elbows him sharply, _again_ – Harry’s quite sure he’s bruised, by now. “What was that for?”

Hermione glares at him, jerking her head towards Neville and Stephen, waiting for him to realise… _something._ Harry glares right back at her.

“Merlin almighty, Harry,” Ron mutters as Dean replies to Lavender.

“What is it? We all know Harry’s dumb, but what am I missing?”

“I’m not dumb!” Harry cries, face heating up when his housemates look at him with faces that clearly say, _yes you are_.

“Mate,” Seamus edges away from Dean, “we…you are- we think, at least. It’d be seriously weird if you weren’t, but you don’t even look at _Lavender_ like that and she’s got – sorry Lav – the biggest tits in the year.”

“What has that got to do with anything?” Dean blushes. “I _know_ Lavender’s pretty.”

“Dean, we think you like boys,” Parvati says bluntly. Both Dean and Harry gape at her.

“Really?” Harry asks, looking over at where Stephen still has his arm around Neville’s shoulder. He looks back at Dean, realising starkly that Seamus might not just be his best friend. “Are you and Seamus together?”

Seamus goes bright pink, the colour clashing with his pale blond hair. “Well obviously not, if Dean doesn’t even think he likes blokes!” he exclaims, obviously upset. He turns away from his friend, scrambling to his feet as Dean’s eyes land on him.

“Seamus?” he startles, quick to follow him as Seamus stalks off. “Seamus!”

“Oh Circe, well that didn’t go well,” Lavender mutters, poking Parvati roughly. “Why did you have to do that? Seamus was so happy, thinking Dean was actually his boyfriend!”

“It was cruel of you to keep it from him all summer,” Parvati says, still lying back with her eyes closed. “And don’t poke me.”

“Seamus is a fairy?” Harry blurts out, to Hermione’s gasp and rough backhand, hitting his arm.

“Harry Potter!” she exclaims roughly, “Don’t say you’re a homophobe!”

“What’s a homophobe?” Harry rubs his abused arm, “Stop hurting me!”

Hermione wilts. “Sorry, it’s just- oh, did you pick that word up from your relatives? Because we’re magical and fairies are actual beings, you shouldn’t use that word, obviously, but also because it’s not nice, Harry. It’s homosexual, gay or queer.”

“I beg you pardon?” Parvati frowns, actually looking at them. “What are you on about? Do muggles actually have… _words_ for liking certain sexes?”

“It’s only partially acceptable in modern nonmagical society,” Hermione explains quickly, “There’s a whole movement dedicated to queer rights. It’s still illegal in many countries around the world and more than likely, Harry’s muggle relatives have never educated or been educated in the concept of diverse sexuality.”

“Diverse what?” Harry questions, baffled. “How did we get from Dean and Seamus to this?”

“Culture clash,” Ron intones wisely, obviously quoting Hermione.

Half an hour later, Harry’s brain is fit to burst with how much information Hermione has stuffed into it. He thinks about gay men and lesbian women, transsexual people and _diversity_ , remembering how Uncle Vernon would scoff and sneer at men who held hands in the street and that awful, poignant year when two women moved to Magnolia Crescent and subsequently _left_ after children threw rocks at them for being _freaks_.

Neville and Stephen still sit across the way with the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, Neville the sole lion amongst them. Harry tries to imagine being with one of the other boys in his year, like Terry Boot or with one of the older years, like Fred and George. The idea of being kissed leaves him feeling strange – by boys, even more so. _It’s not right_ , he thinks, even though he knows now, after Hermione’s passionate speech, that it’s perfectly okay to like boys or girls – or even both, like her.

“I think I’ll stick to girls,” he mutters to Ron, who agrees in a half-hearted mumble, no exception to listening to Hermione’s lectures.

The next day, they have double transfiguration with the Ravenclaws and almost immediately, the status quo of the past three years is broken when Neville goes to sit with Stephen – inspiring the rest of the class to mix and match. To Harry’s own befuddlement, he finds himself sitting with Morag, who places her satchel on the floor between their chairs while Ron blinks in confusion at a chattering Kevin Entwhistle, who has invited him to sit with him.

“Make sure no-one steals anything from it,” Morag orders him – obviously talking about her bag – and Harry nods, too confused to fight what is clearly an order.

Professor McGonagall looks flummoxed at the change, but she rallies admirably. It’s a strange morning – Harry’s never heard her give so many points to both Gryffindor _and_ Ravenclaw before. The very atmosphere of the class is different, like the tension in the room has been vanished and the air refreshed.

Harry’s sure it won’t last – surely in the next few days, weeks, Hogwarts will go back to normal. He wants to sit next to Ron and Hermione in classes. He wants his common room back. Heck, he wants _Neville_ back. The only time Neville’s ever in Gryffindor tower is to sleep.

But then Morag takes his glasses off his face after he squints one too many times at the board and scowls at them, tracing tiny runes onto the edges with her wand. Harry at first panics, going to grab them – however, Morag slams them back on his face and _Jesus Christ on a bike,_ he can _see._ Harry looks around the classroom, dazzled by how clear everything is.

“What’s that in the sunbeam?” he asks Morag, who scoots her chair closer to his and tells him it’s just dust and this is probably why Aunt Petunia thought he was a rubbish duster. Harry’s prescription is way off the mark. Morag makes him promise to visit Madam Pomfrey about getting a new set of glasses or even look into fixing his eyesight by the weeks end; apparently his glasses have been repaired with magic too many times for her auto-focus enchantment to last longer than that.

At lunchtime, Harry nearly forgets to go to Professor Potter’s office, going nearly the entire way to the Great Hall before he pivots in place, barking his excuses to Hermione. His friend, exasperated, shoos him off and in his haste to rush back the way he came, Harry almost runs down Draco Malfoy.

“Watch it, Potter!” the blonde Slytherin barks, glaring. Harry steadies himself, stepping back with an apology on his lips, only for Malfoy to continue, “Are you _that_ blind or just that stupid? I see your posse aren’t here to back you up.”

“Oi, I didn’t mean to run into you,” Harry stares at his schoolyard nemesis with a certain anger bubbling up inside him, ready to heat back up after a summer’s worth of solitude – discounting the day of the Quidditch World Cup, when they met in the stands and out in the forest while running from danger.

Malfoy, he notices with his newly improved sight, is rather more lean this year. Like Ron, he’s shot upwards and to Harry’s dismay, is very clearly taller than him, nose more set in his face and his white-blonde hair like his father’s is longer, pulled back in a fancy braid and held with a silver clasp.

“What are you staring at?” Malfoy frowns when he notices Harry looking. His hands twitch and he looks almost self-conscious as he straightens out his robes and brushes his loose parting behind his ear. At his sides, Crabbe and Goyle look him up and down, as if trying to find the hair out of place Harry has ‘seen’.

“Morag fixed my glasses,” Harry finds himself blurting out, to his own revulsion, mouth running amuck, “I’ve had these since I was six and my aunt didn’t get me new ones. I think I actually might count as blind, when it comes to seeing things close up.”

Malfoy looks miffed and slightly confused. “Well…well, of course you can’t see close up – you’d be a terrible seeker if you were short-sighted.” There’s an odd moment of silence, before Harry decides to just walk on, slipping past him towards the staircase that will lead to the History of Magic corridor.

When he gets to her office, he slows. Teddy is outside, practically bouncing on the spot. When he spies Harry, his face lights up and it must be a trick of the light or some kind of prank charm – but Harry _swears_ he sees his hair turn bright, bubblegum blue for a second.

“Harry! Great, you’re here! Mum’s just inside, some students were asking her some questions. She told me to wait,” Teddy pauses, “so I suppose you’ll have to wait, too.”

“Lunch has already started in the Great Hall,” Harry ventures, “Maybe we could knock and remind them of that?”

Teddy pauses, thinking it over. Then he nods in agreement and raises his fist, pounding on the door and hollering, “ _It’s lunchtime, can we get lunch now, please?_ ”

Almost immediately, the door swings open and Harry can see a trio of startled fifth years. Sitting on her desk, legs swinging slightly, Professor Potter gives them a cheery wave before looking back to her students.

“Alright, alright, off with you, now. I told you I didn’t have long – though usually, Teddy’s a little more patient than that.” Professor Potter gives Harry an amused glance, somehow knowing he’d encouraged the impulsive action. “Come on in, boys.”

Harry and Teddy enter the classroom, passing the fifth years as they go. Professor Potter doesn’t hesitate to draw her son into a hearty embrace, pressing a kiss to his hair.

“How’s your first week been? Snape doing you dirty?”

“He’s been ignoring me,” Teddy shrugs, glancing to Harry. “We going to eat, now?”

“Sure, kid,” Professor Potter leads them around behind her desk, tapping her wand against the wall beneath her window. To Harry’s surprise, the floor sinks beneath them, turning into a slope as a door appears from the wall.

“In here,” Teddy enthuses, grabbing Harry’s hand and dragging him down the spiral staircase that is revealed when Professor Potter opens the door. At the bottom of the staircase, Professor Potter’s quarters are revealed.

Around the size of her classroom, the space is open and bright, glossy wooden furniture set around the room. Set at an angle in the corner facing the rest of the room is a large bed with emerald sheets left in a mess, heavy velvet curtains in black quickly closing off the corner as Professor Potter flicks her wand, cheeks red. In the other corner is a small kitchen set-up that merges into a strange mix of a library, living area and wardrobe, an arched bookshelf set over a railing full of robes and a set of shelves. A curved, L-shaped leather sofa sits out of place amongst the menagerie, a fluffy purple rug at odds with the green and brown. A door to the right presumably leads to a bathroom.

Just off the centre of the room is a dining table, which Teddy leads him to sit at and to the left is an empty fireplace, above which hangs a portrait of a witch with heavy-lidded eyes and soft chestnut hair.

“Hi Grandma,” Teddy waves at said portrait, the witch offering him a small smile – but her gaze quickly turns on Harry, watching him carefully. Wary of portraits, which Harry knows are usually quite the gossipy bunch, he only offers the witch a perfunctory nod.

“Winky!” Professor Potter calls, a house-elf popping into existence. To Harry’s startled surprise, he recognises the elf.

“You,” he blinks, “You’re Mr Crouch’s old elf.”

Winky’s eyes go wide and glassy, her chin wobbling as she looks sharply between him and Professor Potter – who looks at Harry in a scolding manner.

“Harry,” she says, “That’s no way to speak. Winky was freed by her old master, yes, but she has now found a gainful employment elsewhere. It’s in bad taste to speak of such matters.”

“Ugh,” Harry swallows, looking to Winky, “Sorry. How are you liking working for Professor Potter?”

Winky gulps audibly, sniffling. “Professor is good to Winky. Winky keeps her mistress’ secrets and check on the little master.”

“I _knew_ it!” Teddy exclaims, “I could smell a house-elf on my trail!” Winky looks horrified at Teddy’s words.

Professor Potter rolls her eyes, sitting down at the table. “Enough. You knew I was keeping an eye out – Winky, some lunch, if you would.”

Winky snaps to attention. “Yes, Mistress!”

Harry shuffles into a seat, hesitant. He has a long list of questions he wants to ask – mostly, ones about how she’s related to him, but some about the Potter’s in general and India. Do they have a palace like the Patil’s? How many more Potter’s are there in the world?

But everything is quiet, except for how Teddy chatters on about Hogwarts, telling his mother about a secret passageway he discovered in the Hufflepuff common room that leads to the fourth floor. When plates of food appear in front of them, Harry keeps his mouth full, too nervous to speak.

Professor Potter sees right through him, though. “Slow down there, Harry – I can call you Harry, right? Outside of class, of course.”

Harry swallows a too-large mouthful of food. “Yeah,” he says, sipping his pumpkin juice to wash it down. “Sure, Professor.”

Professor Potter wrinkles her nose. “You don’t know my name. Sorry. I should probably introduce myself properly, shouldn’t I?” She raises her hand, holding it across the table. “Euphemia Lily of House Potter. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Harry.”

Harry shakes her offered hand, squeezing gently. “Are you my aunt?” he asks hopefully.

Euphemia gives him a gentle smile. “Not quite, but feel free to call me Aunty E or Aunt Lily – I go by both.”

“It’s kind of weird that you have the same name as my mum,” Harry says, feeling a little more at ease.

“Yeah, a little,” Euphemia says lightly, before jerking her thumb towards Teddy. “This is my godson, Teddy. I adopted him when his grandmother passed.”

“Adopted?” Harry blinks, looking at Teddy and almost falling sideways off his chair when he sees that Teddy has changed entirely. No longer black-haired, green-eyed and dark skinned, Teddy sits there with a pale, creamy complexion, bright turquoise hair and amber-orange eyes. “What the hell?” he blurts out.

“Teddy is a metamorphmagus,” Euphemia sighs. “And I asked him to stay in one shape while he was in school. He decided to look like me, rather than more like his base form.”

“Watch this!” Teddy says, before his whole face _melts_ , morphing into a horridly accurate version of Professor Snape. He speaks and his voice is the same, drawling cadence as their potions professor. “I’ve been practicing for _weeks._ ”

Harry gapes.

“Teddy still has Potter blood in him,” Euphemia says, “we’re part of a previously solely-magical family, so he has to be. His father’s grandmother was a Potter.”

“Who _are_ you?” Harry asks her, baffled.

“That’s a complicated question and the answer, I want to keep to ourselves for now,” she says, before hurriedly assuring him, “It’s not a secret, just not something to be spread about so hastily. If I told you, could I have you word you wouldn’t tell anyone till…till after the Triwizard Champions have been picked?”

Her demeanour isn’t hostile or even afraid – she’s asking him a favour and Harry doesn’t know whether or not he wants to grant it. On one hand, the professor has implied she’ll tell him the truth if he gives his word – but if he doesn’t, what then? Will he have to deal with her being his mysterious ‘Aunty E’ forever, without answers? What if she could take him away from the Dursley’s – would he be able to trust her enough, if she did?

Euphemia waits for his reply, identical green eyes behind identical circular specs watching him, unblinking. Beside Harry, Teddy nudges him.

“Mum’s not being bad about this, it’s just important. There’s stuff that’s going to happen that we want to help with-”

“Teddy,” Euphemia cuts across him. “Harry has to agree, before we tell him. If he doesn’t want to know, that’s fine – I’ll tell him about the family history, instead.” Euphemia looks to Harry. “I’m not going to isolate you or cut you off, if you disagree. We’re not keeping it secret forever. Certain information will come out naturally over time and I’m giving you a chance to learn earlier than the rest of the world, is all.”

“Is it big?” Harry asks. Euphemia’s lip twitches.

“Depends on your definition of ‘big’.”

Harry hesitates, weighing it over in his head before finally nodding. “Okay. I won’t tell anyone.”

“Not even Ron and Hermione?” Euphemia questions.

“…just until the Champions are picked, right?” Harry gives her a small grin and it’s so _odd_ seeing his own expressions reflected back at him.

“Alright.” Euphemia sits back in her chair. “To say it as simply as possible, Teddy and I are from another universe. We’re also from the future. I took part in an experiment a few years ago and since then, the Department of Mysteries has managed to finish the project. It was restricted, but most of the people working on it, I know really well.”

“Wait, another _universe?_ ” Harry interrupts, the truth building itself up from all the scant facts Harry possesses. “And the future – so what, you’re _me?_ Me from another future and universe, who’s a _girl?_ ”

Euphemia blinks at him. “Okay, now I’m surprised. Thought it would take you longer than that to figure it out.”

“I’m oblivious, not stupid,” Harry says irritably.

“Alright, apologies, then,” Euphemia excuses herself, “Want to hear more?”

“Sure,” Harry says, leaning forwards. “What’s different in your universe?”

“Not much, not really – I’m a girl, you’re a boy, that’s really about it other than the classes we took,” Euphemia shrugs, smiling at him. “Ancient Runes is much more fun than Divination, by the way. My universe is a few years ahead of yours, too, which is where the ‘time travel’ bit comes in. We had a peek into your time here and my friends, they saw the kind of hodgepodge life I was living – Andy, Teddy’s grandmother, she died and left him with me, so I had to stop moving around so much.”

“We were only holiday for a year in Brazil,” Teddy interjects.

“You might have heard from your classmates, but I was a curse breaker, in my universe,” Euphemia explains. “I went running around magical ruins and buried cities. I wasn’t _quite_ a tomb raider, because I went exploring rather than specifically _searching_ for things…” Euphemia trails off, eyes going out of focus. “It was fun. It was dangerous, though – not the life Teddy should have been leading. Except I don’t do well with stagnation or staying in one place with a steady job, so-”

“Isn’t that what you’re doing?” Harry interrupts, “I mean, being a teacher.”

“Oh Harry,” Euphemia lets out a bubbling laugh, “Why do you think I doubled up as many years as I could? I’m not planning on being in the castle a lot, this year. I have a list of stuff that has to get done in this universe. Some of it is Voldemort-related, the no-nosed bugger.”

Harry blinks. “No-nosed?”

“End of fourth year shenanigans – which reminds me,” Euphemia clears her throat awkwardly. “So, Harry, mini-me…you are going to be pissed at me later for not telling you, which is why I’m telling you now that someone is going to rig the Tournament and unless I want to completely upset the timeline, I can’t do anything to stop it.”

“…alright,” Harry says slowly, not seeing the problem.

Teddy coughs. “Voldemort’s gonna get you entered into the Tournament, Uncle Harry.”

_Ah._

“…alright,” Harry says, realising the problem and feeling the sting. _I can’t just have one normal year, can I?_ “And you can’t stop him?”

“The way he does it, it’s just awkward trying to stop it,” Euphemia sighs. “I was in the Tournament once and it was shit, for a while. The Tasks themselves were fine – good, even. The _other_ stuff was problematic. At least here, you probably won’t get asked out by half the boys in Hogwarts to the Yule Ball.”

Harry’s stomach flips. “The Yule _what?_ ”

“Why do you think dress robes were on the lists, this year?” Euphemia questions, lip twitching. “If you’re _really_ struggling, then you could probably get away with inviting Teddy, unless I can smuggle him in somehow.”

“What about Aunt Luna?” Teddy questions.

“He’s not met her yet,” Euphemia waves him off before visibly pausing, “Actually, that would be a great idea.”

“Who’s Luna?” Harry questions, wary.

“Luna Lovegood, a Ravenclaw in Ginny’s year – they actually live nearby each other, too, grew up going over to each other’s houses,” Euphemia answers. “I met her in my fifth year and originally you would have too, the first time around. Me coming here changes things. I’ve already had to tell off a whole heap of Ravenclaw’s for bullying – it’s an epidemic, in their tower.”

Euphemia looks angry at the fact and Harry feels at odds, because he’d never noticed any bullying going on in Ravenclaw before. From her expression, he has a feeling it hits close to home for her – probably because of this ‘Luna’ girl. _I’ll have to ask Ron about her, sometime,_ Harry makes a note in his head.

Aiming to distract her, Harry asks, “Who did you take to the Ball?”

“Me?” Euphemia scrunches up her nose, smiling in remembrance, “Eh, no-one. Got in big trouble from Professor McGonagall and Professor Dumbledore ended up dancing with me in the opening number. Champions have to open the Ball. It was actually kind of fun, though my relationship with Dumbledore was complicated, by the end of my time at Hogwarts. Even after his death-”

“Dumbledore _died?_ ” Harry questions, scandalised. He hadn’t even thought about the headmaster dying before – how old is he, anyway? A hundred? A hundred and fifty?

“He was given a mercy killing,” Euphemia says quietly, somewhere else in her head. Eyes distant, Harry barely hears her speak. “He was dying. He told no-one. Snape did him a favour and doomed himself in the process. It’s one of the things I need to change.”

“Dumbledore dying?”

“Well, that too,” Euphemia snaps out of it, “but no, I meant Snape. I’m going to attempt to redeem him, fuck knows if he deserves it. He bullies kids and is still obsessed with a dead woman over a decade later. However, he hasn’t had the chance to become more than what he was at the end of the war and if I have anything to do with it, he won’t have his chance at post-mortem redemption either, not that redemption means much when you’re ten feet under.”

Horrified, Harry’s mouth drops. “What- how-”

“It starts with his teaching career. The Aurors are already onto him about his behaviour and more than likely, he won’t be the potions instructor after Yule – and if he is, then it’ll be because I got my way and another teacher will be hired to teach the first to third years.” Euphemia states with a determined expression, cracking her knuckles. “I have _plans_ for Hogwarts. Changing things _now_ will make it easier later. In my home universe, it came all at once when the school was rebuilt and the numbers of students rose sharply.”

“Slow and steady wins the race,” Teddy chirps through a mouthful of apple. Harry glances at the table, not having realised lunch had disappeared to be replaced with snack items and dessert. Taking a teacake off a glass cake rack, Harry idly thinks back to the kind of things Professor Potter had mentioned in her lessons.

“More teachers,” he says, swallowing his mouthful, “for more students?”

“Yeah,” Euphemia nods, taking a handful of grapes and bringing up her knee, resting it on her chair and against the table as she snacks. “Because Professor Binns is technically still on staff and teaching the fifth years part-time, we actually have a History Department, now. Flitwick’s jealous, I can tell – Sprout already had a pseudo-Herbology Department with her NEWT students looking after the greenhouses with her as part of their advanced courses, so she’s not so fussed.”

“Don’t we have an Art Department?” Harry asks, vaguely recalling a list of expressive electives he’d ignored, not interested in filling up his evenings with extra lessons.

“Yes, but as they aren’t Core Classes, they don’t officially exist in the capacity of as a Department,” Euphemia explains, before elaborating at Harry’s confused face. “Core Classes are the ones you’ve taken since first year. Because everyone takes them till fifth year regardless of personal opinions, they’re managed in a way that lets them have multiple teachers and a Department Head. History of Magic is a Core Class, despite what many people think.”

“Is Flying a Core Class?” Harry asks.

“Nope,” Euphemia replies, popping another grape in her mouth. “Quick-fire question: what is Madam Hooch’s role in Hogwarts other than flying instructor and Quidditch referee?”

Harry blinks, thinking about it and realising he doesn’t know. Euphemia smiles.

“Madam Hooch is a Master of Warding, were you aware? It’s not well-known, for good reason – she’s in charge of security around the school. Part of her job as flying instructor is just a way for Administration to get around explaining to the Ministry her exact role in the staff, as historically the school Ward Master is unidentified, to keep them safe in the event of sabotage.”

“That’s really brave of her,” Harry says, surprised.

“It is – don’t piss her off,” Euphemia warns with a small smile. She smiles a lot, Harry realises and every smile is different. This one makes her eyes glint, like she’s sharing a secret – like Dumbledore, in a way. Some of her other smiles are different. He recalls the one she gave Captain Deirdre after speaking Parsletongue – when she bared her teeth and looked at Deirdre for her fear with veiled contempt.

“What does she do after teaching us how to fly?” Teddy asks, curious. “Madam Hooch, I mean. We had flying yesterday.”

“That’s her own business, but the Madam Hooch in our universe did contract work,” Euphemia says casually. “She built up ward schemes for private clients who were recommended by friends. As the Hogwarts Ward Master, she’s inclined to keep her business quiet, in case she’s needed to power the emergency scheme.”

“Emergency scheme?” Harry repeats inquiringly.

“If Hogwarts was attacked, Madam Hooch would go to wherever she’s hidden the castle ward stone and…” Euphemia hesitates, lip twisting. She looks vaguely worried as she twists grapes off the vine.

“Harry, don’t do this yourself unless you get the training because I know _us_ – but when Madam Hooch raises the emergency wards, she does it by tying her magical core into the ward stone. Whatever scheme she’s written for the emergency wards would be designed only to activate if she tied her magic to the stone. It leaves her vulnerable to attack as she wouldn’t be able to raise her wand, but the wards raised would be- would be like your mother’s magic, actually,” Euphemia pauses, “Protecting others at the cost of her own magic. It’s permanent and only ever a last resort.”

Euphemia sits forwards, hands rising to wave about as she explains, “Quirrell couldn’t touch you, right? That’s because your mother sacrificed her life for you, binding her magical core to the protections she raised. That magic stayed with you and will until your own magical core matures on your seventeenth birthday and overwhelms any bindings, curses or enchantments that have been placed on you – including Mum’s protection. If Mum had lived, she would have been less than a squib for how she sacrificed her magic.”

Harry reaches up to touch his scar, “Oh,” he mumbles, touched.

_Mum sacrificed her magic for me._

It’s different from hearing ‘she died for you’ or ‘she was murdered in front of you’. No – Lily Potter willingly and _knowingly_ went to her death without her magic, if Harry’s guessing this right. Those wards sound like they need time and forethought. It makes more sense, this way. His mother was a witch and she didn’t fight Voldemort – but didn’t Professor Lupin and Sirius say his parents fought each other in school? Argued? That doesn’t sound like a cowardly witch, that sounds like a fighter.

 _Mum knew he was coming,_ Harry thinks, almost choking on the realisation. _She knew he was going to kill us. She knew it was inevitable. But how? How did she know? Why did they go into hiding in the first place?_

“Someone once said something to me,” Euphemia interrupts his thoughts. “I did something similar to what Mum did, once. The person I was speaking to about it all called me an impossibility and a conundrum, because I still _have_ magic. The both of us, all the Harry’s and Euphemia’s – we’re special now, but one day, you’re going to be utterly normal. I promise you that.”

“You mean when the protections wear off?” Harry asks.

“I mean, when I get the piece of Voldemort out of your scar,” Euphemia says gently, eyes kind. “You have a connection to Voldemort – it’s why you’ve been having those dreams, like the one about a snake in a run-down house and a muggle man who died after overhearing something he shouldn’t. They’re not dreams, Harry, they’re real – products of a magic that I hope _no-one_ will ever have the chance to understand, fully.”

His professor’s words take a long moment to sink in. At first, he wants to know how she knows about the dreams – then he remembers she’s him, that she’s _been through this._ Euphemia Lily Potter, History of Magic professor and traveller from another universe has done this before. Harry wonders if they called her the Girl-Who-Lived and if Malfoy called her _Scarhead_ and-

Harry’s eyes zoom in on Professor Potter bare forehead.

“You don’t have the scar,” he utters, shocked.

Euphemia grimaces. “Not on my forehead, no. You’re unlucky it’s somewhere so visible,” she says, before reaching up to tug her collar down inappropriately far, revealing a larger scar than Harry’s – one that is silver and healed over instead of red and bright like it’s freshly cut. It’s still a lightning bolt, too, resting sideways over her heart and while Harry flushes when he realises the scar dips down further to where he can see a hint of black lace, he also notices the tattoos along her collarbones.

Seeing where his eyes have drifted, Euphemia lets her shirt ride up to safety, but keeps it down enough for him to see the inky swirls.

“It’s Aramaic,” she says, “Classical Syriac, if we’re getting specific. They help me sense danger and foreign magic. Quite mild, but very accurate. You know, if you wanted to, it’s not too late for you to transfer into the Ancient Runes class instead of continuing to take Divination.”

“Transfer?” Harry frowns. “But Ron-”

“-is far more suited to Divination than you,” Euphemia cackles all of a sudden, like the Wicked Witch of the West, hands clapping together as she lets her shirt go finally. “Oh! You don’t know! This is epic – I should tell him. We should tell him, shouldn’t we Teddy?”

“Tell him what?” Teddy wrinkles his nose.

Euphemia rolls her eyes. “Numpty. Why doesn’t Aunt Hermione not like leaving Uncle Ron and Aunt Luna alone together anymore?”

Teddy puts a finger to his chin, thinking hard. His head cocks slightly, before his eyes brighten – literally, amber orange turning a bright blue Harry recognises from three years being friends with Ron.

“Oh!” he exclaims. “Because Uncle Ron can tap into the Tapestry of Time!”

Euphemia snickers, “Exactly.” She looks at Harry, brazen glee in her eyes. “Long story short, mini-me, but Ron’s a Prophet.”

“He’s a what?” Harry frowns at his other self. “That can’t be right.”

“Oh, but it _is_ , he just needs some tutelage,” Euphemia waves him off. “I’ll tell Sybil and join her when it comes to telling him. He won’t believe her otherwise and if he did, it would still be an interesting conversation to watch. My Ron didn’t find out till after he predicted an entire Quidditch game a week before it happened and got himself outed by the _Daily Prophet_ without meaning to.”

“That sounds like Ron,” Harry mumbles, thinking it over. It’s kind of funny that the one class Ron took as a skive turns out to be the class he’s the only one it counts for. “So, what?” he raises his voice, “Will he get special treatment in Divination after this?”

“Not quite,” Euphemia replies, “He’ll get tested by someone to figure out his strengths and powers, then either be taught during expressive class hours in the evening how to improve his natural abilities or have them bound.”

“Bound?” Teddy yelps sharply, hair turning a stark white. Harry identifies the panic flickering across his face as Euphemia shushes him gently.

“Some people _need_ their powers bound, Seers especially. In retrospect, I’m surprised that Luna was never hauled off by the Ministry – it’s pretty damn obvious what she is,” Euphemia admits, wincing. “Actually, maybe telling Ron’s a bad idea. Could get the Ministry interested in the new crop of wix. She’d be caught out in an instant.”

“Is getting bound…bad?” Harry cautiously asks.

“If my powers were bound, I wouldn’t be able to shift,” Teddy says and it’s a little more obvious just how enormous his range is when he’s upset – Harry watches his hair and eyes go through a rainbow of colours in his distress, freckles fading and darkening all across his skin. Harry imagines having such a power and winces at the thought of it being taken away.

“Right,” he says awkwardly, clearing his throat. “Why don’t I just tell Ron myself and he does it on his own?”

“Maybe,” Euphemia says reluctantly. “He’s just so young right now. It’s safer for him to be guided through it all, rather than going straight into the deep end.”

“Why don’t you do it?” Harry offers.

“Me?” Euphemia raises her eyebrows. “Kid, I’m not that kind of teacher. I was never involved in my Ron’s lessons and in any case, he was an _adult_. Underage wix have malleable magic. Ron here and now could become something else entirely if he delved into all that – _my_ Ron was stuck at the same point, he couldn’t progress like your Ron can. Frankly, it’s dangerous and we shouldn’t tell him.”

Harry huffs. “That’s not fair to him,” he argues, “and what about this Luna girl? You said some people need their powers bound-”

“Luna wouldn’t be Luna without her powers,” Euphemia cuts him off. “It’s been too long for her, Harry. When I say they’d haul her off, I mean they’d haul her off to St Mungos and lock her in the long-term ward. There’s no way to disguise her magical signature if Ministry officials came creeping around – it blazes like the sun. Not to mention, purebloods who recognise what’s happened or even ignorant muggleborns who could say she’s weird would get her caught out by name.”

“So you’re going to protect her at Ron’s expense?” Harry questions angrily.

Euphemia’s gaze sharpens. “Would Ron _want_ her taken away in exchange for knowing he has precognitive powers that he might not even end up being able to control?”

Stomach flip-flopping, Harry falters, realising she’s right. Ron might think it’s cool to have magical powers that’ll tell him who wins what quidditch game, but he’d never agree to it if it meant a- a what? Thirteen year old? Someone Ginny’s age, anyway, someone he might even _know_ – Ron wouldn’t want her locked up in some insane asylum. He’s too good for that.

“You’re right,” Harry admits quietly.

“I know. I’m sorry, it’s my fault this conversation began, anyway,” Euphemia says, brooding.

Teddy clears his throat, “Can we invite her to lunch, sometime?”

“Sure. I’ll hold her back after class one time and see what she thinks – brilliant girl already knows who I am, in any case,” Euphemia smiles a little then, proud. “You know what she said to me in the middle of class? She said ‘I see why we’re friends, Euphemia’. Confused the hell out of her group – how is that going, by the way?”

“Not bad,” Harry admits, “We met up after dinner that day and did everything. We couldn’t really finish it, though.”

“Why?”

Harry fidgets. “One of our questions- Lily Moon’s questions, it was ‘why are muggles scared of us’. We all kept arguing what the real reason was.”

“Maybe you were arguing because you chose one of the most heated debate topics in the Wizarding World,” Euphemia says without humour. “I’ll let it pass, when you present your answers to the class. As your professor, I officially excuse your group from answering that – don’t worry about it being seen as favouritism. I’ve already had some other groups come up to me and say they can’t do parts of their own research. It’s a lesson in picking your own homework.”

“On purpose?”

“Slightly,” Euphemia admits, confirming Harry’s thoughts – she wasn’t _really_ so frazzled over her lesson plan. It was an act.

“You’re a good actress,” he tells her. Euphemia laughs.

“Thank-you. It comes with the territory, I suppose. You can’t be the Woman-Who-Conquered without becoming a bit of drama queen. Comes in handy against reporters.” Euphemia chuckles to herself before abruptly snapping her fingers, “Fuck dammit! Skeeter! _Winky!_ ”

Winky _pops_ into existence, to attention. “Mistress?”

“Winky,” Euphemia orders, “When the Triwizard Tournament starts bringing people to Hogwarts, I need you to keep an eye out for the reporter, Rita Skeeter. She has a secret animagus form as well, in the form of a large beetle with unusual antennae. When she steps onto Hogwarts grounds, I want you on her tail immediately, disregarding any other orders you’ve been given at the time.”

“Is that really necessary?” Harry questions, alarmed.

“Yes,” Euphemia replies shortly, glaring at nothing. “She’s a bug and a menace. I hate her. She tried to make it seem like Hermione and I were vying for Viktor Krum’s attention _and_ that I was attempting to get between Cedric Diggory and his girlfriend – you know her. Cho Chang. Her and I never got on after I found out she was involved in the stuff going on with Luna.”

“Alright, but that still doesn’t excuse having a house-elf _stalk_ her!”

“You haven’t seen the kind of damage she can do, Harry – and you’re going to be ripe for the picking when she gets to Hogwarts,” Euphemia says darkly. “She targets you, Hagrid, Hermione – anyone who’s vulnerable to getting their reputation _screwed_. The only way to use her talents for good is to blackmail her and I want to save that for when I need it, thank-you.”

Harry splutters, trying to find something, _anything_ to say to that. Whomever this ‘Skeeter’ woman is, Euphemia clearly hates her – a lot.

“I have plans,” she continues, “One of which is getting you out of the Dursley’s. I’m you – the blood wards should be easy enough to fool. If I can get Remus involved, even better.”

“Why- why Remus?” Harry asks, mouth going dry. _She’s going to get me away from them._

Euphemia points at Teddy. “Him. He died for Teddy in the other world and was clever enough to predict it. He and Teddy’s blood mother weren’t fools – they even doubled it up. It’s how Andy knew they died in the battle. If I can trick the protection around Teddy to thinking Remus is a different relative rather than the progenitor of the protective magic, then I can tie the two sets of blood wards together – three, if Sirius is added in.”

“That makes no sense,” Harry says bleakly, looking at Teddy. “How are you related to Remus? And why Sirius, too? What does that all mean?”

Teddy and Euphemia exchange an amused look. “We didn’t tell him,” Teddy snorts gleefully, bouncing in his chair. He turns to Harry, holding out his hand. “Edward Remus of House Lupin and House Black, son of Remus John Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks of House Black.”

Harry blinks – and then Euphemia clears her throat.

“I want to tie three sets of blood wards together in a synchronous ward scheme, meaning you would have to live in the same house as me, Teddy, Remus and Sirius. That’s what it all means. I want to give you a home and a family of your own, Harry, full of people who love you. The only real question is: will you let me?”

**Author's Note:**

> “Education is the most powerful weapon which you can use to change the world.” ― Nelson Mandela
> 
> “Never swim in a rough sea, dear boy, this sea's a killer. But the past refused to come back, as it did in dreams, to be remade. Titus walked in my dreams in the brightness of his youth, which was now made eternal. Or else I dreamed that he was dead and felt joy on waking.” ― Iris Murdoch, The Sea, The Sea


End file.
